M'Naghten Rules
by GratefulInsomniac
Summary: Post-series. House and Cuddy reluctantly agree to meet in order seek closure for the events of the past. In spite of the lessons they think they have learned, they're still drawn to each other.
1. Bargaining

_**A/N-I know it's been a while, but here is another post-series, reconciliation-style short story. My intention isn't to delve deep into their history or exhaustively explore their issues here, so forgive me if it seems some issues really aren't dealt with in detail in this story. I'm not trying to "fix" anyone, just explore some of the possible complications of meeting again. This one is one of my less fluffy stories. **_

_**This story came from a prompt from **aussiefan12. **(I'll put the prompt at the end of this chapter.)**_

_**(Sorry to those of you waiting for a Too Lost sequel…everything I try to write in that universe just doesn't quite come out right.)**_

* * *

-Bargaining-

House's sense of victory lasted for only a few hours after they began their road trip. The truth was grim and unavoidable: Wilson was dying. It was easy to forget that Wilson was terminal sometimes, although as time went on, signs of deterioration did show. Wilson had accepted his fate with little anger and set out to enjoy his remaining time with his friend. House was focused on making every viable second count for them before Wilson was gone, but it seemed a lot like a countdown to doomsday. He didn't tell Wilson that. House answered each question with sarcasm or misanthropy and they fell into the same pattern they'd always enjoyed.

They had been on the road for nearly four months. They shuffled out of their sparse, cheap motel room and went across the puddled parking lot to the only diner in sight. A waitress, young and disinterested, approached with a pot of coffee and filled their mugs while she texted. "Eating?" she asked.

"Geez, could we?" House retorted as he shut his menu and dropped it onto the table. "Short stack and bacon."

"Oatmeal and fruit," Wilson added while he looked out the window.

The waitress disappeared as House glowered, "Fruit? Are we watching our cholesterol?"

"We've been eating junk for so long that it's really losing its appeal."

Wilson still seemed distracted by something outside.

"What are you looking for?" House complained while he tapped the filter of a cigarette on the table before pinning it between his lips.

"Nothing, I…" Wilson scowled in disgust as he waved away the smoke that floated over toward him, "Do you really _need_ another vice?"

"I'm trying to collect them all."

"Why do you need to smoke that around me, why do you need to smoke that at all?"

"Don't worry, you'll be dead before the second-hand crap catches up to you."

"What about your first-hand crap? Is this time-released suicide? Are you _trying_ to get cancer?"

"I'm hosting a competition to see if my liver or lungs can take me out first. The lungs have a lot of catching up to do."

"This is my last hurrah, House, not yours. This is just one trip out of the many you can still take. You need to consider a future," Wilson advised before he turned to the window to scan the parking lot yet again.

"I didn't fake my death to sit around and talk about your impending real one. I…OK, now you're starting to make _me_ feel paranoid. What in the hell are you looking for?"

"I thought I saw a…grey car."

"Oh my god, no! Anything but a grey car."

"Don't be an ass. It seemed like there was one specific grey car, the same one."

"No one is following us. No one knows we're here…" House studied Wilson as he thought. "Unless you know something that you're not telling me."

"No. One car just seemed familiar. I guess I'm still not used to being on the run."

"Did you tell anyone where we are?"

"Definitely not," Wilson defended adamantly.

"No one is following us. Even if they were, you didn't really do anything wrong, so technically I'm the only one on the run. Stop worrying and—" House was interrupted by the clatter of Wilson's bowl on the table.

The waitress returned a few seconds later with another plate that was included with Wilson's meal. She had to bring one plate at a time since her other hand was still clutching her phone. House pulled her phone from her fingers and offered, "I'll hold that for you until you bring all of our plates over and refill our coffee. At this rate, we'll still be here for breakfast tomorrow."

The waitress scowled but retreated to bring the rest of their things before she grabbed the phone back from House. "Anything else?"

"Leave the whole pot," House demanded, "that way we don't have to interrupt your important 'LOL' and smiley face exchange for a refill."

After breakfast they gathered their modest belongings, packed up the bikes and got ready to leave. Just as House pulled on his helmet, he saw a grey mid-sized car drifting quietly behind the motel and out of sight. He blamed Wilson for the momentary flash of paranoia before he dismissed any concern as unnecessary.

Wilson had to admit it, he was having fun since they'd run away from reality. He truly felt free. This whole trip was crazy, ill-planned and reckless, and exactly what he needed. When it started to rain again, they continued riding. Wilson proudly ignored the feeling that they should get off the road. As the rain came down in fatter, faster drops, he began to question the decision to continue. The drops were slapping exposed skin with surprising force, something that always stung more than he thought it should, and the bike really was harder to maneuver on the slick blacktop.

House pulled into the pocked gravel parking lot of a bar where only half of the signs were properly lit. Another cheap and barely sufficient motel was located behind the bar, and it felt like a day best enjoyed through the bottom of a glass.

Only a few patrons were inside the dive. There was a woman sitting at the end of the bar, her forehead propped on her hand, who didn't seem to move except when she needed another sip. At the other side of the room, a group of men were playing poker. House and Wilson took two spots at the bar and began to tinker with an electronic game in front of them while they drank.

They were there for a few hours, wasting small bills on the game they were playing, when a louder group barreled through the door. Ignoring the chaos behind him, House said to Wilson, "Want to go to Vegas next?"

"Vegas?"

"Legal prostitution, gambling, dancing girls…we could hit a few spots on…," House stammered and shook his head for clarity as he realized something wasn't right. "Did you…slip me something?"

"Why in the hell would I do that?"

"That's what I was going to ask you," House said, fighting to maintain alertness.

"Come on," Wilson said, standing and trying to relocate his friend.

Before Wilson could get a good grip on House's arm, the drugs had taken effect. Wilson's eyes darted about while he felt for House's pulse, trying to figure out who had perpetrated this. The bartender was immediately on the phone with someone, and Wilson could only hope it wasn't the police. Although the bartender whispered, Wilson could hear her say, "He's ready."

Wilson's heart pounded rapidly at the woman's ominous words. There was only one thing to do: he had to get them out of there. He couldn't help but wonder what law enforcement agency or cunning mind could have set up this trap and why. House was on the run, but he certainly wasn't a career criminal on any most-wanted lists.

The door opened and a figure approached. "There is something so satisfying about revenge, isn't there, James?" Arlene Cuddy asked.

"What are you doing here?" Wilson asked. "Did you do this? Did you drug him? Why?"

She paused to speak to the bartender before returning her attention to Wilson. "You and I are reasonable adults. He is not. I knew we could have a more productive, rational discussion without him interrupting all of the time."

"A rational discussion about what?"

"I need your help."

"I'm not getting in the middle of whatever this is."

"It pains me to hear that, James. I'm trying to help Greg. I'll need your help to do that. If I don't have your help, I guess…I'll have to notify the authorities so that perhaps professionals can help him. I hear they have group therapy in prison, maybe that would help him with his obvious substance abuse problem. This is the first time I've seen him in years and I find him passed out at a bar before lunch."

"Because _you_ drugged him."

"Don't be ridiculous. He was already passed out when I got here. Everyone knows what a terrible drug problem he has."

"This is…," Wilson looked around and lowered his voice, "this is blackmail."

"I'm a concerned mother. He was practically part of the family."

Wilson took a deep breath before he asked, "You're really serious about this?"

"Do you think I'd be here if I wasn't serious?"

"Fine. What is it you want from me?"

"Help me get him to the car. We'll go for a drive and have a little talk."

Arlene found help in moving the heavy, slumbering House out to the car; he was too unwieldy for Wilson to drag alone. The bartender certainly didn't want an unconscious patron taking up a seat at her bar. Once House was sprawled across the back seat of Arlene's burgundy vehicle, Wilson noted, "Hunh. So you weren't the grey car. I thought we were being followed by a grey car."

"I'm certainly not paying full price if he was so inept that you were able to spot him."

"You've had us followed all this time?"

"Oh please. I tracked that cheap cell phone I gave you. It would have been _really_ helpful if you would have turned it on more often. When you got close enough, I hired a PI."

"Wait," Wilson said worriedly while he looked around, "where are our bikes?"

"They're taken care of. I think you parked in a no parking zone."

"No we didn't."

"Well…they've been towed. And I'll be more than happy to help you locate them once I have what I want."

"House and Cuddy are not getting back together. I'd think after everything, you'd see that's for the best."

"I don't want them to get back together. I want them to get over the past."

"If I were you, I wouldn't get involved."

"Well, you certainly aren't me and you aren't a mother. He's running away, hiding, showing his cowardice. Lisa's acting like absolutely nothing ever happened…like she's impervious. And you...you're the worst of all."

"Wait, what? Me?"

"You're running from life, sitting on some overpriced attempt to assert your masculinity while you're waiting to die. I've sat back and allowed you all to make your own decisions. I've given you all plenty of time to sort this out on your own. You've failed for long enough. Time for you two to drop the Bonnie and Clyde act and remember that this is your last chance to get it right."

Wilson watched buildings zip past his window while they drove in silence. After nearly an hour, he turned around to check on House and said to Arlene, "Wonder when Bonnie will wake up."

* * *

House noticed his empty stomach, throbbing leg and pounding head as soon as he began to return to consciousness. He sat up, feeling his pockets for a pill bottle. Leaning his head on the cold glass window, he allowed his memory to come creeping back as he finally dropped a pill in his mouth.

"Feeling OK?" Wilson asked from the front seat.

"What the fuck happened? And who the hell are you?" House griped.

The blond driver turned when she was stopped at the next traffic light and warned, "Have a little respect. I could have been your mother-in-law."

House's eyes seemed to hesitate before they came into focus, and disbelief competed against the pain for his attention. "I hope you're taking me back to prison, because I'd rather be there than have to see _her_," he answered.

"She doesn't want to see you either, believe me," Arlene answered.

"It's not very often that she and I actually agreed on…well on anything, so if we agree about this, it should be a huge sign for you."

"I've been doing some research. You're both addicts. Why should I trust either of you?" she asked. He was silent and even more confused, so she explained, "You have your pills, she has her work. You're both single-minded and stubborn. You're a pair of ostriches hoping to find something better, but all you ever do is stick your heads in the same sand time and again. Then you're surprised when nothing ever gets any better."

"Arlene Cuddy: armchair psychiatrist. A little information can be very dangerous."

"Ignorance is _always_ dangerous."

"How did you find us?"

Wilson and Arlene shared a look and then Wilson said, "I think Arlene may be on to something. You should hear her out."

Arlene stopped the car to refuel. "Don't try to leave. I'd hate to have to turn you in…or try out my new taser."

House leaned up to Wilson and asked, angrily, "How did she know I was alive?"

"She…was at your funeral. When she saw me leave, she was suspicious, stopped me before I could go. I was almost out the door and she grabbed my arm and glared and said, 'He's alive. I know he's alive.'"

"But how'd she find us _here_?"

"She ambushed me at the first stop of our road trip, gave me a cheap cell phone and told me to call if I needed anything…if I became too ill. Like a safety net. She said she'd feel better knowing that I had a backup plan. Apparently she was tracking it."

"We're fucked," House moaned. "Maybe we can bargain…I'll promise to turn myself in after you—"

Arlene opened the door and sat down, "Thank you for cooperating, gentleman. Now, James, did you tell him about our little agreement?"

"What agreement?" House groaned.

* * *

Cuddy had just stepped back into her shoes and was gathering the things she needed for an evening meeting when the doorbell rang. She squinted through the peephole and, when she saw Wilson, threw the door open. She felt a little unsteady on her feet as she realized he was really standing in front of her. Stepping out onto her porch, she threw her arms around Wilson's shoulders and said, sadly, "I'm so relieved to see you. When he died, I knew how much it would hurt you, but I never expected that you would run off like that."

She was wiping a relieved tear from the rim of her eyelid before it could escape when she saw the look on Wilson's face.

"Wilson? Are you alright? Do you need to sit down?"

"It's really great to see you."

"You too, but," Cuddy paused as she saw her mother's car in the driveway and looked back at Wilson for answers. "What's going on? Are you alright?"

"I have to tell you something, and it might not be easy to hear, at first, but just promise me you'll hear me out."

Cuddy's lips pressed tightly as she thought, and then she answered with a complete lack of emotion, "He's not dead. Is he?" She shook her head, like it was something she thought she should have known all along, and then took Wilson's arm. "I don't want to waste any more time on him. Did Mom bring you here?"

"Sort of. She brought…_us h_ere."

Cuddy shook her head, "Wilson, you are welcome here at any time. _You_ are welcome. _He_ is not."

Wilson turned and waved to Arlene as he said, "Just hear her out."

"I have to get to a meeting. I want nothing to do with whatever she is planning. I'm not going to be involved in this reunion or whatever the hell this is supposed to be."

Cuddy's words trailed off as she saw House pull himself out of the car, plant his cane on the surface of the driveway and begin to limp over. Arlene followed him, like a guard watching over a prisoner. Cuddy felt anger burning in her chest as she saw them approaching and found that she didn't even want to look at House, as if maybe he would disappear again if she refused to really see him. She didn't feel his eyes on her for even a second.

She held out her hand and said, "He's not coming in my home, Mom, so take him back to whatever whorehouse you found him in."

"Look, dear, we need to talk," Arlene said.

"You could have called."

"All of us need to talk. You can spare a half hour."

"He doesn't get another minute of my life."

"I understand that. But this isn't about him, it's about James."

Cuddy folded her arms over her stomach, "I have the feeling that I'm about to be manipulated, and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

"I really think it would be best to move this conversation inside, away from watchful eyes."

Cuddy cleared her throat, shaking her head more and more slowly before she said, "Fine, the garage."

"The garage?" Arlene asked.

"I don't want _him _standing in my home…looking at my things, making observations and judgments. I'll open the garage door, we can talk there." The visitors began to walk to the driveway and Cuddy added, "You know the garage, right? It's the one spot in the house that it's actually OK to drive into."

The garage door opened a few seconds later. Cuddy watched the pairs of feet emerge as the door lifted, seeing House's sneakers and cane and wondering what in the hell she was doing. They stepped inside and she pushed the button to lower the door.

"Don't get any closer. Stay over there," she ordered. Cuddy was standing in the doorway to her house, determined to keep all possible distance between them. "Let's get to business and then you can leave. Wilson, you're interested in finding treatment or at least care? Is that what my mother's trying to use to manipulate me? I can talk to our oncologist. She's one of the best. You're welcome to stay here, with Rachel and I, if you want. As long as you visit with your _friend _somewhere else."

"Lisa dear, James and I were talking," Arlene said. "We think we came up with an agreement that will work for everyone."

"I need to leave here in five minutes, so get to the point."

Wilson answered quickly. "We think that you and House need some time to work through things."

Cuddy laughed with loud astonishment, "We will never, ever, under any circumstance…have some sort of reconciliation."

"Believe me, that's the last thing I want," Wilson answered. "You're both stuck. Your mother and I think that you may be able to put some of this behind you so you can both get a fresh start without all of the baggage of the past."

"Look around, Wilson. I did start a new life. I have a new job, a new home, new employees. That life…is a long way behind me. I can't even see it in the rearview anymore. If House is stuck in the past, that's his problem."

"I'm talking about closure," Arlene said. "I spoke to someone about the difficulties you're having and he thinks that is what you need."

"Me? I am _not _having difficulties. At all. I'm great. And there is no such thing as closure for what happened. I learned from it. I did what I had to do. Cut all ties, and left it all behind me."

"Part of you is still trapped in the rubble back in Princeton. That's what Michael said," Arlene argued.

"Mom, how many times have I asked you not to discuss my personal life with strangers."

"He's not a stranger, he's a trusted friend."

"Could we get to the point?" House bellowed.

Cuddy turned suddenly, for some reason the sound of his voice was harder to ignore than the rest of him. "Don't come into my home and tell me what to do."

"Technically we're in your garage."

"Still part of my home. And don't speak to me, you've lost the right to speak to me," she said as she started charging toward him, propelled enough by her anger to forget about the space she wanted to leave between them.

When she was close enough, he finally looked right at her. It was the first time their eyes had met in over two years. They both stared forward aggressively, neither willing to show any weakness.

He finally spoke again, "I'm just trying to limit the overall number of minutes that we have to be near each other. Let her get to the point."

"You have a lot of nerve coming in here and telling me what to do."

"Fine. Keep arguing with her. The longer you ramble on, the longer my pleasant ass is going to be standing here in your _home_. Maybe that's what you secretly want."

He caught his thumbnail between his teeth, realizing that he had been chewing on it for so long during the ride that most of it was gone, and what remained was actually softened.

Cuddy turned back to Arlene and said, "What possible motive could you have to put me through this again? Can't you just let it die?"

"You're exhibiting certain worrisome behaviors. I want you to be able to make some peace with the past. If you don't make peace with it, you'll either spend the rest of your life alone or you'll make anyone who is willing to be with you completely miserable."

"You want us to sit down and have a _chat_ about the past? The time for peaceful conversation is long gone."

"A moderated discussion. Michael has offered to facilitate conversation between you and perhaps guide it a bit."

"You want House and I to go talk to a rabbi that you are friends with? _This_ is the solution that you think will work?"

"What's going on right now isn't working either. I was willing to allow you time to work through things on your own, and you've failed. If it's a rabbi…he can't be forced to testify against Greg and he won't call the authorities…he's a spiritual advisor."

"If you agree," Wilson added, "I'll go for chemo each time you both attend a session. That is…if chemo is still a possibility for me. I guess I'll find out tomorrow."

"Michael's son is an oncologist. James spoke to him earlier on the phone. They're doing some tests tonight and meeting with him tomorrow to discuss possible treatment," Arlene said.

"Are you _sure_ you want this, Wilson?" Cuddy asked, skeptically.

"I think it's for the best," he answered. "Maybe you could call each other once a year and say hi…or not. It would be great if you didn't have to hate each other. I supported a relationship between you…hoped for it even. I'll always regret that."

"It's not your fault, Wilson," Cuddy assured. "No one blames you."

"I also don't want your mother to turn him in. And she will."

"So you're blackmailing all of us?" Cuddy asked her mother.

"Enough with the melodrama," Arlene replied. "I wouldn't say _blackmail_. You all think you're so smart, but you're obviously not when it comes to yourselves. Try this. See if helps. It can't do much more damage, can it?"

Cuddy nodded hesitantly and then said, "One visit for each treatment?"

Arlene answered with victory, "And one during the consultation tomorrow."

"And I don't have to see House at all otherwise."

"Of course not."

"And he won't come near my home?"

"Trust me," House answered, "I don't want to be near you or your garage."

"Tomorrow isn't a lot of notice," Cuddy added.

"Take a long lunch. Isn't that supposed to be one of the benefits of being the boss?" Arlene argued.

Cuddy glanced at House. His shoulders were hunched and his body seemed heavier than normal as he focused on a spot on the cement floor. She turned to her mother and said, "Could you and Wilson give us a moment?"

Everyone stared at her with awkward pause until she opened the garage door and gestured for them to leave. After Wilson and Arlene stepped outside, House and Cuddy stood in silence. The former couple couldn't even seem to look at each other. She stood a little closer to him, but not too close, resting her palm on the top of her car as she gazed out the door.

"You're willing to do this?" she finally asked.

"Apparently," he answered, gruffly.

"If I get the slightest feeling that you, or any objects under your control, are about to in any way attempt to do me harm—"

"If I do something stupid, Wilson won't continue chemo. And I'm pretty sure your mother would call the cops."

"I'm doing this for Wilson."

"So am I. Don't read anything else into it. This isn't about _you_."

"I'll go, but I'm planning on saying as little as possible."

"You'll have hours to tell a captive audience everything I've ever done wrong. I'd think you'd love that," he answered as he turned and left with as much speed as possible.

Cuddy walked out of the garage and nodded at her mother, "Fine. We'll do it."

* * *

**A/N2-aussiefan12's suggestion was a story based on what would have happened if Arlene would have showed up at House's funeral.**


	2. Marathon

_ A/N: Here's the next chapter. Thanks to all of you for the favorites and follows, and thanks to all of you who left me comments: IHeartHouseCuddy, OldSFfan, LizLo, KiwiClare, JM, lenasti16, sallen151, ikissedtheLaurie, Suzieqlondon, freeasabird14, JLCH, aussiefan12, newsession, lin12344, jkarr, LoveMyHouse, BabalooBlue, Vast Difference, bere, kraw, Abby, sweetysaucy, HuddyGirl, Alex, Addie, Naomi, vicpei1, jaybe61, DziecieElfow, maya295 and the Guests._

_It's really nice to be writing here again. I have the next chapter nearly finished, so I should be able to post again within the next few days. This story is mapped out pretty thoroughly, so I hope to be able to update regularly._

* * *

**-Marathon-**

House and Wilson checked in at a motel very close to Arlene's. She'd offered, or more accurately insisted, on driving them to their appointments. Clearly she didn't trust her daughter or House to stay, because she walked into the waiting room with Wilson unhappily in tow.

Cuddy was already waiting when they arrived, seated in the corner where she was furtively tapping on her phone. Her eyes lifted while her mother and Wilson sat down. "What are you doing, Mom? Babysitting us?" Cuddy asked.

Arlene smiled with hints of condescension and answered, "James and I would like to ensure that both of you stay for the full session. As soon as you're done, he'll go to his appointment. That's how this works."

When Michael came down the hall from his office to invite the pair in, Cuddy strode with as much purpose and confidence as she could muster. House limped slowly after her. Michael gestured to a sofa and waited for them to take their places. Michael was an averaged sized man, greying hair, and a full, scraggly beard. He had compassionate brown eyes and deeply chiseled lines on his face that balanced the compassion with firmness.

Cuddy sat first at the farthest end of the sofa, so far over that it looked like she was sitting on the space between the arm and the cushion. Crossing her legs tightly at the knees and nervously bouncing her foot, she waited to begin. House flopped down at the other end of the sofa. He sat there, balancing his cane on the arm rest and one leg, and rolling it back and forth with his palm.

Michael sat last and before he could say anything, House asked, "Are all of your patients blackmailed into coming to you? Is this a new way to drum up business?"

Cuddy looked at Michael when his answer was slow in coming. She saw concern on his face as he questioned, calmly, "Which of you feels you've been blackmailed into coming here?"

She and House exchanged a very quick look, the first of its kind in ages and conspiratorial in nature. She shook her head, "House never takes anything seriously so get used to it."

Michael turned to House, "Have you been blackmailed?"

House shook his head, "No. I think this is pointless though. Just because we had a shitty relationship and an even shittier breakup doesn't mean we're not doing fine now."

"And you think you are? You are doing fine now?"

"Definitely."

Michael turned away for a moment to silence his phone and place it on his desk. While he was turned, House and Cuddy looked at each other for a split second, long enough to nod. They agreed on one thing: they would do whatever they could to help Wilson, even if it meant being momentary allies.

Michael cleared his throat before he began to speak, "We have a few items to go over before we begin. Our discussions are private and protected. I'm offering spiritual guidance. I'm not here to diagnose, and I'm not here to judge, I'm here to facilitate productive conversation in a safe environment. The only recommendation that I will make is that, at this time, you should avoid conversations away from here. This situation is…sensitive. We'll have our discussions and then you'll have time to think. The next week, you come back again and can discuss. Feel free to take notes during the week of things you want to talk about. I want to avoid angry, midnight texts or phone calls after you leave here. It's important to have time to cool off…to think before reacting."

"That won't be a problem," House answered too quickly.

"Agreed," Cuddy confirmed with equal speed.

"The only exception to the rule of confidentiality is if I think you may harm yourself or someone else. Be as honest as you're able. Try to have an open mind and an open heart throughout these discussions."

Michael smiled slightly as he watched both of them offer passing sneers of distaste.

"My biggest concern," Michael continued, "is the history of domestic violence…of abuse."

"A _history_ of abuse? That's what we're calling it?" House asked.

"I know something of your past. I definitely know that you were incarcerated for a time for an act that is considered an act of domestic violence."

"You're making it sound like she had to make up stories about falling down the stairs to explain her bruises. I never hit her. I never even tried to hurt _her_. Damaging a thing and hurting a person are not the same thing."

"In any event, your actions fell under the definition of domestic violence, and I need to be certain that everyone here is safe and no one feels threatened."

"You want to talk about definitions? Fine. What about a woman who withholds affection as a method of manipulating a man into doing what she wants?"

"You aren't seriously going to try to make me out to be the criminal here?" Cuddy laughed bitterly, "You are the only person who could possibly equate a woman's right to say no to act of domestic violence."

"I'm not _saying_ it was domestic violence. I agree that it isn't. I'm just trying to make a point. We were talking about the definition of abuse," House argued. "The example I mentioned meets the criteria for emotional abuse. Our entire relationship read like a 'how-_not_-to' book long before it ended, but I wouldn't consider it abusive by any stretch of the imagination."

"You crossed the line."

"You weren't entirely blameless either."

"Did I say I was _blameless?_ I didn't deserve what you did."

"Again, I agree. _I _at least tried to pay for what I did wrong. I didn't make any excuses. I surrendered. I accepted the full sentence. I served my sentence. I deserved it. You would have known that if you would have come to any of the proceedings."

"Why should I have come? There was plenty of evidence, plenty of witnesses, and you admitted that you were guilty."

"How else was I supposed to communicate with you? Smoke signals? Carrier pigeons? Should I have waited for you outside of work or just popped over for a chat? I didn't even know where you were living. If I would have showed up, I'm pretty you wouldn't have listened to what I had to say. I was respecting your attempt to forget about me."

"Look," Michael calmly interjected, "you're both here willingly right now. Hinting that you might have expressed remorse at one time isn't the same as actually offering an apology. Would you like to use this time to express anything to her?"

House paused, "Nothing comes to mind."

The conversation devolved into angry bickering and accusations. They were so busy listing grievances and offering comebacks to each jab that they weren't even really thinking anymore.

When Michael finally put a stop to it, they were both frustrated and angry, each trying to remind themselves of why they were doing this in the first place. "That was fantastic," Michael announced. "You both needed to get some of these things out in the open. My hope is that now that you've had a chance to verbalize and reawaken these frustrations, you can approach our next session and actually listen to each other. We can attempt to truly address what's bothering you instead of just being angry about it. Next time, we'll work on discussing these issues respectfully."

Cuddy and House each expressed their disbelief in quiet but certain ways. Michael smiled and said, "At least you agree on some things. See you during our next session."

She was walking several steps in front of House, but paused to hold the door. "Until next week," he said, "when this sham can continue."

"I guess it depends on what Wilson finds out at his consult," she answered.

It was then that at dawned on House that if Wilson's cancer had progressed too much, they may decide not to treat the disease at all, and there would be no reason for them to continue therapy. He tried to catch up with her but the last two years had been rough on his leg so he called after her, "Wait."

She slowed, arms folded, still mostly facing away from him. "What?"

He moved in front of her to try to gain an advantage if she tried to leave again. "In case this is goodbye, I'm…"

"You're what?" she asked when he stalled.

"I'm sorry that I returned your hairbrush."

"I'd like to leave now," she answered, her disappointment obvious as she tried to bypass him.

"Wait," he argued, "I can't change what I did, what's done is done. But I am actually sorry for what I did. It doesn't change anything, but…there you go."

She could have handled the first non-apology better than she could have handled a real one. The real one seemed to be sincere and she wasn't sure how to react at all.

Before she could respond, he nodded, "We aren't supposed to be talking without a referee."

"Wait a minute," she called after him as he started to retreat, but he waved over his shoulder and continued to the waiting room.

Still stunned, she took meandering steps after him and heard House shout to Wilson, "Come on…I did my part, so pony up."

* * *

During their second session, they picked up right where they'd left off. Michael tried to encourage conversation, but they were quick to argue and had a seemingly endless reserve of sarcastic and sharp responses. Neither of them mentioned House's last minute apology in the hallway after their last session.

"Thanks…for the apology last time," she said as soon as they left the room.

"OK," House answered.

"Before you go. Being here has sort of highlighted…umm. I want to apologize for my part in that whole disaster that was our relationship. I didn't want to hurt you, I never _wanted _to hurt you. No matter what our intentions—"

"I know. Our road to hell was well-paved," he interrupted.

"It doesn't change anything, does it? Apologizing. It doesn't actually fix anything."

"Not really."

Wilson smiled at them as they stepped into the waiting room. Cuddy said to House before she hurried back to work, "Next time."

A few days later, Cuddy met Wilson for coffee at a shop close to the motel where he and House were staying.

"So the oncologist feels there is still a chance the treatment could work," Cuddy said as they sat down.

"He does. I was surprised things hadn't progressed more. It's a long shot, but…a shot," Wilson answered.

"Is House alright with the two of us meeting? I mean…I'm not supposed to have any contact with him and I don't want this to seem underhanded or—"

"He's fine. He said he needed some time to jerk off in peace."

Cuddy shook her head, flickering a smile for second before she decided she couldn't smile about anything House had said. "I'm not here to talk about him anyway. How are you? God, Wilson, I've missed you."

He looked down as she covered his hand with hers. "I've missed you. I don't miss how things were those last few months."

"I know, trust me. Everyone feels that way, at least I think. Have you had fun riding around the country doing god knows what? You guys really just took off?"

"We did. I have had so much fun. It's been amazing. Made me wonder why I didn't have more fun before I was dying."

They started to exchange stories, tales of Cuddy's beginning at a new hospital, and Wilson's favorite stops on his road trip and they were immediately comfortable. Interacting with Wilson was so different than interacting with House.

As they were finishing up, Cuddy slid her credit card into the bill folder, handed it to the server and said, "He's been a good friend to you, hasn't he?

"In his own unique way, definitely," Wilson answered. "This has been so much better than spending the last few months in a hospital bed, reminiscing about what was or regretting what wasn't."

"I hope you won't regret starting the treatment."

"Honestly, I thought I'd be dead by now. I am getting weaker and I don't know how much longer we could have stayed on the road. And if he wouldn't have quit I couldn't have stayed as long as I did. It was coming to an end anyway and I—"

"Quit what?" Cuddy interrupted for clarification.

"The…the uh…being…being an ass."

"Nice try, Wilson."

"He…quit Vicodin. He didn't mention that?"

"We're still arguing about the past. We haven't started arguing about the present yet."

"Maybe I shouldn't talk about this."

"You can't start something like that and not finish. What happened? Is he sick?"

"The first two weeks, he was still…_coping. _Vicodin, heroin, alcohol. He really had a hard time with the fact that I was dying, running away didn't change that. I don't think he knew what to do with himself. I had to stay up to make sure he was still breathing on a few occasions. I had to drag him from a bar when he passed out in a bathroom stall and try to fix his face after he picked a fight with the wrong guy. I told him that I couldn't spend the next few months taking care of him. I'd be too weak. And…it was hard watching him destroy himself. So I told him I'd finish one month on the road together, we could do anything he wanted to do, and then I had to go home."

"But he didn't want you to go home."

"Well, he seemed even worse after that, for a few days. Then one morning he said he didn't want me to go. He got rid of everything, the needles, the pills…everything. He told me to give him a week and come back."

"Where'd you go?"

"I couldn't leave. He faked his death to take the trip with me, I couldn't leave him there to detox on his own, he could have died. It was horrible, complete madness. If more people knew what it was like to go through withdrawal. After a week he was able to start moving around again and eat without vomiting. It took almost a month until he really seemed to be _alright_."

"That's really great, good for him," she said as she nodded, a strange expression on her face.

"Are you alright?"

"Yea. I just… I've been so angry for so long. It's hard to even see anything clearly anymore. I started to tell myself what other people had told me: House is incapable of love or compassion. I mean my sister said that to me more times than I can count. He's capable of love and compassion. He was just never able to feel either of those things for me."

"Wait, Cuddy—"

"Sorry, I said we weren't going to talk about him," she said while she gathered her things. "I'll see you when you have your next treatment. Maybe we can do this again. I'd love to catch up more before you guys go back on the road."

"Sit down," Wilson ordered with uncharacteristic authority, pointing at the seat until she slowly lowered back into the chair. "When it comes to relationships…no…more specifically, when it comes to each other…you and House are complete idiots. Do you have _any_ idea how infuriating it was to watch the two of you together? I was so sick and tired of watching you hurt each other. It was like you each wanted to deliver the preemptive final punch before the other one could deliver it first. You completely bypassed the honeymoon phase and went straight to destruction mode."

"That was direct."

"I spent years trying to gently coax the two of you to slightly less insane perspectives regarding each other, and I'm running out of time and patience," he said with a sympathetic smile tacked on at the end. "Now, when House couldn't handle the fact that I was dying, he tried to cope with it with drugs."

"Well…no matter what happened I'm glad he's clean now."

"You're missing the point. When you were together, and he relapsed…you were lying in a hospital bed, and he thought you were dying. When he was sure he lost you for good, the relapse took on epic proportions and he started down the path to complete self-destruction. Does that seem…at all similar to you?"

"That was completely different."

"Was it?"

* * *

By the third appointment, House and Cuddy were exhausted. They were silent for the first few minutes, both more shell-shocked than angry, still stunned after the intense anger of the first two meetings. They had been so embroiled in their anger that neither of them really took the time to process the fact that they were in each other's lives again, even if for a short while. They didn't seem to feel the need to let Michael know that they'd shared apologies on separate days in the corridor outside of his office. It seemed too private to share.

"These issues that each of you are angry about seem to span a very long time. It's been over two years since your relationship ended, and it's as if no time at all has past, there's been no healing of wounds," Michael said as he tried to lead them in discussion.

"Because 'forgive and forget' is impossible," House answered.

"Some things really shouldn't be forgotten or we make the same mistakes over and over," she added. "New problems are just stacked on top of old ones."

"Have you sought and offered forgiveness?" Michael asked. "I mean in a sincere, honest way, accepting only your part without making accusations against the other?"

"What's the point?" House asked.

"I thought the point was closure."

"There's no such thing. 'Closure' is one of those words that shrinks and _spiritual_ _advisors_ like to use. It's part of your sales pitch. You promise us that you'll help us find this magic closure that will cure our pain. If we don't find it…the answer is simple, pay for more therapy. It's snake oil, false hope and bullshit."

Michael replied, "Let me ask this then: You both have ample reasons to be angry, plenty of reasons to cut ties with each other. I am telling you that, as a professional, your anger with each other is fully justifiable. You can stop trying to prove that you have a reason to be angry, that has been established. So what is it that has kept bringing you back together over the years?"

"Arlene Cuddy," House answered.

"This time, perhaps, but what about before? Why have you consistently decided to overlook your issues with each other? You completely bypass forgiveness, and try to keep going forward. It's like driving on a flat tire, in way. You can keep going forward, if you wish, but you're doing further damage to the vehicle if you don't stop to fix the flat. So what is that driving force…that _motivation_…to return to one another?"

"My balls."

"Of course," Cuddy scoffed.

"And her ass. We should each take some of the blame."

Michael nodded without judgment, "So you're saying you were drawn by a physical attraction?"

"And mental illness…as implied by our presence here," House answered.

"As much as you want to pretend that our entire relationship was centered on your desire to fuck me, you know that's not true. There was more to it than that," Cuddy argued.

"Of course there was. You wanted to fuck me too."

"We spent too many years not fucking for it to be about fucking."

"So what was it?" Michael asked. "What made each of you continue a personal relationship that already displayed numerous indicators that it wasn't healthy? Why begin a romantic relationship when your prior professional and personal relationship history was already so full of complications?"

"You know how sometimes people buy those dilapidated old farmhouses to fix up? My sister and her husband just bought one," Cuddy explained. "When people buy them, they usually don't imagine how they are, they imagine what could be. They move in with a can of paint and new shutters, and for a while, things look promising. Until they go in and realize that the furnace doesn't work. They may become discouraged for a while, but, they feel it's worth the effort, and they try again, put a little more effort in. They fix the furnace. And things seem good again…until they realize the pipes in the basement are leaking and eventually the whole roof caves in."

"For the record, my furnace does work and my pipes don't leak," House said.

"I wasn't referring to _you_, I was referring to our relationship. No matter what warnings we had that disaster was impending, we kept on trying. We should have cut our losses long before we did."

"Do you see any truth in that?" Michael asked House.

"She's overcomplicating it. We were attracted to each other and worked in the same building, that's all. In the end, the gaps between who we were and who we needed to be to make the other one happy were too large. There were a few times when we thought maybe the gap between us wasn't so bad. We were obviously very, very wrong."

There were a few seconds of near peace. It seemed like a real discussion that lacked the acrimony that defined the earlier sessions. Just as the lighter feeling of possibility began to settle in, Michael said, proudly, "We're over our time by nearly fifteen minutes. That was probably the longest conversation the two of you have had here without arguing."

"Except technically we were still arguing," House debated.

"Civilly though. I think what you are each suggesting is more similar than you think. We can continue this next time."

Cuddy smirked.

"What's amusing about that?" Michael asked.

She shook her head and said, "We could…but we won't."

"You won't be here?"

"We'll be here. We just won't continue that conversation. We never do."

It seemed painfully true. Honest conversations like that were infrequent between the pair. Often if they came close to discussing something important, walls were built and defenses prepared before any real progress was made. The windows for communication were rare and narrow.

This time as they left the office, neither of them offered apologies or spoke a word, but they walked out together. A receptionist called them over, "Your associates had to leave for another appointment since you ran late. I can call a taxi for you when you're ready."

"You don't need a taxi," Cuddy said, and then she waited, uncertain of whether she hoped he'd accept her offer or reject it.

"I can wait. It's fine," House replied.

"I'll give you a lift. I'm tired of everyone else telling us what to do, aren't you?" she questioned. "My mother tells us we have to talk, manipulates us into talking. Then Michael tells us when and where we can talk and what we have to talk about. No one seems at all interested in what we want to do."

"So I should stop doing what everyone _else_ wants me to do and instead do what _you_ want me to do?"

"I'm offering, but it's your decision. As long as we go to the sessions, we're meeting our part of the bargain to keep Wilson in treatment and you out of jail. The terms of the agreement didn't go any further than that."

* * *

House had such an imposing presence, Cuddy thought as she drove. He could be loud and assertive, and he would push and shove as hard as he needed to whenever it was necessary. But sometimes he was quiet, disarmed and pensive. He wasn't pushing anything that day in the car. He rode along silently, which made her wonder why he was always so un-ignorable, even when he wasn't really doing anything.

"You didn't see that farmhouse as it could have been," he said when he pointed at the motel where he was staying.

"What?"

"Your farmhouse metaphor back in Mr. Insightful's office. If our relationship was supposed to be the farmhouse, you didn't see the farmhouse as it could have been. You saw what you wanted it to be, and expected it to become that and nothing else. You bought a farmhouse in Iowa and wanted to transform it into a penthouse in Manhattan. All of the coats of paint, money and hard work in the world won't turn a farmhouse in Iowa into a penthouse in Manhattan."

"That's not what I wanted at all."

"It kind of is. People can only reach a certain distance from who they really are. If you would have told me when we were together that you really wanted me to run a marathon with you, I could have gone. But in the end, with my leg…I'd either finish about three weeks after you or I'd have to figure out a way to cheat. You'd be disappointed by me no matter which one I would have chosen, and I can't change the fact that I can't run."

"So you're not a marathon runner. We could have tried going on walks instead of marathons, but you decided that if you couldn't run, you might as well cut your legs off."

"You were the one who abruptly ended it."

"And you made sure it stayed over." She scanned the parking spots, "Which room are you in?"

"Twelve."

She pulled up to his room, sliding the gearshift into park and focusing on the crack between the heavy curtains in his window.

He reached for the lever to open the door, and she asked, "Do you think you were able to see us as we really were and not what you wanted us to be?"

"I don't know," he shook his head. "And I'm tired of thinking about it."

"Me too." She studied the motel window a little longer and asked, "So this is how you live now? No more apartment?"

"No more apartment. Of course the 'life on the open road' thing seemed more thrilling before your mother impounded my bike. Until I get it back, I'm stuck in the same crappy motel, hoping that the chemo works and I still need two bikes when I leave _this _crappy motel for a _new_ crappy motel very far away from here.

"Invite me in," she suggested with determination.

She waited for some forceful, unabashed rejection of her request. He stared at the glare on the hood of her car, tapping the hook of his cane against his cheek while he thought, then subtly bobbed his head. "If you want."


	3. Volition

_A/N-Thanks again to everyone for your comments (IHeartHouseCuddy, jkarr, ikissedtheLaurie, lenasti16, OldSFfan, Boo's House, KiwiClare, freeasabird14, JLCH, LoveMyHouse, jaybe61, Addie, BabalooBlue, gildedlily89, Bere, Robin, MissBates, Suzieqlondon, lin12344, Abby, HuddyGirl, Alex, Vast Difference, Karen, grouchysnarky, LittleGreg, maya295, JM, ClareBear14, iridescentZEN, and the guest reviewers._

* * *

**-Volition-**

He unlocked the door with the keycard and she followed, taking just one step into the room and sliding her back against the wall so she was leaning right next to the door.

"You were the one who wanted to come in here," he said in response to her caution.

"It's just weird, alright? A few weeks ago, you were still dead. I'm…getting acclimated. Isn't it weird to you that we're here?"

"Not really, but I've known I'm not dead for a lot longer than you have." The way she was glued to the spot by the door bothered him, so he asked, "When you wanted me to invite you in were you hoping that I'd stay outside?"

"Do you think I'm an idiot for wanting to come in?"

"Probably."

"Does that mean you're an idiot for letting me in?"

"Probably."

"So if I shouldn't have come and you shouldn't have let me in…why am I standing here?"

His expression alone confessed his lack of answer. He tossed his wallet and the keycard on the uneven round table that sat between two fake-leather upholstered chairs. Looking toward the bathroom, he pointed and mumbled, "Be back," before he disappeared. He was relatively sure she'd realize her mistake and be gone before he returned.

She focused on his wallet on the table, stepping carefully just a few more feet into the room. She sat on the edge of the chair, listening to it squeak under her. Silently reaching her hand over the table, she took the wallet and flipped it open. She was studying the photo and the unfamiliar name on his license until she saw the plastic fold for photographs. Instead of pictures, she found scraps of paper with notes written in unfamiliar shorthand. There weren't any pictures except for the one on his ID.

She'd become so engrossed in her snooping that she didn't hear him step out of the bathroom, in fact she didn't notice him at all until he was only a few feet away. Tossing the wallet back up on the table, she apologized immediately, "Sorry…I…I don't know what possessed me to do that."

"Curiosity, probably," he said before he placed two fingers on the wallet and pushed it over the surface of the table to a spot directly in front of her. "Go ahead, there's nothing to hide."

She picked it back up and held it open to him so he could see his fake ID with his new name as he took the seat opposite her.

He answered, "I meant there's nothing to hide from you."

"How do you get by without a job?" she asked as she saw there were only a few bills tucked in the wallet.

"Besides pimping out Wilson? Savings. I didn't have a Land Rover and two vacation homes to waste my earnings on, so there's some money."

"That's it?"

"Wilson had a rainy day fund and I had money stored in a few places…for emergencies."

"But how long will that last?"

"Long enough." She was still looking through his wallet like she was searching for something in particular, so he asked, "Are you hoping _to _find something or hoping _not_ to?"

"A little of both. Maybe. I don't know."

"I don't keep pictures, not on me. I have a few in storage, but not many there either," he finally answered as he scratched his cheek.

She closed the wallet and pushed it back across the table before she looked around the room.

"So this is how you guys have been living? This is your new life?" she asked as she scanned the space.

"This is nicer than some of the places we've stayed. Figured if we're stuck here for two or three months, we could spring for the slightly less cheap version of a cheap motel."

"What about insurance and retirement? What if things go wrong?"

"Wilson obviously doesn't need retirement."

"What about you? What are you going to do after he…"

"Kicks it?"

"Well, now that he's being treated maybe he'll live a much longer life."

"Bridges that we'll obviously cross when and if the time comes."

"These are all of your belongings, just what's here in this room? Yours and Wilson's?"

He slumped down in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach, and cautiously answered, "I got my own room a few nights ago, so Wilson's stuff is in his room. We needed a little personal space. We're kinda stuck here. You know how hard I am to live with."

"Actually, I don't." His eyes questioned her and she answered, "We never lived together…not really."

"I was at your place enough to annoy the hell out of you."

"You were at my place enough to be annoyed and want more space."

"See, we're both annoying. With so much in common, it's strange that things didn't work out."

"What are we trying to do?"

"We? Again…_you_ were the one who wanted to come in."

"I don't mean today, I mean overall. If other considerations weren't a factor, what is the desired outcome for us? This idea of closure is pointless. We both agree on that. As nearly everyone has confirmed, we shouldn't hope for reconciliation, so what is our goal? We're trying to get to a place where we're a little less angry about what happened? Is it worth all of this to be a little less angry? Are we supposed to be buddies?"

"We _could_ be for a minute. But at some point, against every ounce of logic and rationality I possess, I'd realize that I still want you, even though I shouldn't," he finally lifted his eyes and looked directly and without hesitation into hers. "_Shouldn't _was never much of a deterrent for me. And then one of two things would happen…either you'd make it clear, yet again, that you don't want me anymore, in which case I'd have to deal with that, _again_…or… Or you'd see something in me that would make you think that I could be the man you want. You'd think I have changed or I can change. We both know the inevitable outcome of that. That whole experiment has been tried. You wanted to know if we could work, and you got your answer."

"Those are the only possibilities?"

"You'll never forgive me for what I've done, not _really_. You may hate me, I'm not sure about that yet, but you're here. Which is a pretty decent indicator that _shouldn't_ isn't much of a deterrent for you either."

"Are you in less pain since I'm out of your life?" she asked, defiantly.

He rubbed his thigh but offered up no answer.

"I told myself I would be better. I told myself I would be in less pain. But I'm not," she finally said.

His eyes ventured up to her but otherwise he did not move. She was standing behind her chair, waiting for a response. With frustration, she spoke, beginning to pace, "It's like we're ruined. That's how everyone sees us… We even see ourselves like that. No therapy or closure or whatever they want to call it will ever make us fine. We're too damaged. That's it, right? If we _can't_ be together, and we won't find anyone else, and we can't even find a way to get over each other, nothing will ever change. We'll circle this drain for the rest of our lives?"

"What do you want me to tell you, Cuddy? You want me to say everything's gonna be alright? I can't do that for you," he stood because her pacing made him anxious and his leg was aching.

"I just…" she walked over to him, no longer pacing, and paused, not even sure of what she wanted to say. She reached out, her fingers touching his lowest rib. "You really are _alive_," she mumbled, admitting something to herself that she should have admitted weeks ago, and finally accepting that it was true.

"Be careful what you touch. The rest of me is alive too," he said as he attempted to deflect the gravity of the moment, fully expecting her to pull away in disgust, and feeling oddly surprised when she did not.

"What am I supposed to do about the fact that I'm actually relieved that you're alive? Things were complicated enough when you were dead but now… I still see things that remind me of you, sometimes even things that make me smile, and I don't know what to do about that. I hate that…I don't hate you. Believe me, I tried. I can't turn on hate any more than I can turn off love. We can try to convince ourselves, but all of the denial in the world can't _really _change how we feel. Those things exist or don't exist in us without our permission."

"I tried to hate you, but it didn't work out," he mumbled. "Seemed easier to make you hate me."

The feeling of her hand was still so familiar. It felt exactly like her touch had always felt long before breakups, fallouts and prison, so he did what he would have done at a time when her touch wasn't so anomalous. He reached out, his hand curving around the back of her hip as his grip tightened slightly. She scowled up at him angrily, jerking away from his touch with every bit of her available indignation.

He put his hand out to the side, questioning. He looked down at his chest, to the place where her hand was so recently, and pointed to it, waiting for the explanation of why it was alright for her to touch him but not the reverse.

In the previous weeks, they argued almost every time they were near, slinging words at each other at rapid fire pace until the well of words ran dry. So they were arguing silently. She turned away from him, but he grabbed her wrist, firmly but not roughly, and angled her body back to face him again. His eyes examined her response with all of the unsatisfied hurt that he'd been carrying.

She shook her head, the anger and sadness bleeding forth as frustration and confusion while she pulled her wrist away from his grasp. She took a quarter step closer to him before her argument turned itself on her. Her knuckles tapped the open palm of her other hand while she thought, and she finally spoke, "This is crazy."

Her fingers ran through her hair, pulling unruly strands away from her eyes so at least she could fix _something_. Even in the midst of their silent argument, she found herself stepping closer again, her fingers touching his arm, moving to his shoulder. Neither of them knew if they were just reacting against the situation forced upon them, or if they were desperate for understanding in a world where they felt too often misunderstood. Or maybe they were just finding another way to argue.

His hand reached out for her hip again. If she could touch him, he deserved equal rights. She didn't pull away this time. His arm tightened around her as he lurched back to the bed and sat on the edge. The tips of his fingers followed her spine, over her shirt, up to her neck and along the back of her head. He tightened his fingers around a section of hair enough to get her to tilt her head and expose her neck. She moved under his direction willingly for a bit, feeling the temporary arrhythmia of her heart as he came closer.

Her momentary lack of resistance was enough invitation for him to continue. He dug his chin into the dip above her collarbone, his mouth exploring the smoothness of her neck. He moved to the center of her chest, opening her shirt as quickly as he was able without ceremony. She could feel the scratch of his stubble running across her sensitive skin, down her chest, followed by the soft warmth of his mouth. He nipped at spots along her body, feeling the wall of earlier resistance crumbling as she moved closer to him until her hips were pressed against his abdomen while his arm kept her from tumbling backward.

Once her shirt was open, both of his hands slid around her and up along the contour of her back, feeling and savoring the remembered shape of her. He unhooked her bra as she shrugged her shoulders out of her shirt, and he was yanking it down her arms before the shirt had even cleared her hands. As soon as he could, he pulled her body back against his. He didn't allow time for hesitation, trying to outrun the almost certain expectation that one of them would come to their senses at an imminent moment.

Her hand moved across his shoulder, her fingers grabbing onto the back of his neck. She moved suddenly, placing her palms flat against his shoulders and shoving roughly enough to push him down on the bed. His initial reaction was to believe that she'd realized the fullness of their mistake, but the look in her eyes spoke to a different motivation. She was kneeling on the edge the mattress, climbing up until he was under her. He pushed up her skirt impatiently, reaching for the tops of her thighs while he felt his usual experience of longing intensify.

She pulled his hands away, wanting to assert her control over this ill-advised tryst. If she wanted equal responsibility, he wasn't about to stop her. Pushing his hands to the bed, she leaned on his wrists to hold him down, but he didn't want to be controlled any more than she did. He twisted his arms out from under her, reached his fingers around her thighs and pressed firmly into her flesh as he progressed steadily to her sex. Impatiently and without the slightest reservation, he ripped the seam in her panties and tugged the remaining lace away from her body.

She'd already undone his jeans. He breathed more loudly when her hands slipped into his boxers with the same impulsiveness that he had exhibited. His head lulled, enjoying the momentary meeting of a need that had been ardently oppressed. He lifted slightly from the bed with her still on him, wiggling underneath her to push his clothes out of the way. Everything was happening so fast. She moved her hips closer, grabbing his cock while he closed his eyes and waited for her body to surround him.

His heart double-thudded when he realized they'd come to a sudden halt, wondering again if this was the moment when she'd decide they'd gone too far, just as he was so close to something he craved beyond reason. She was looking at his nightstand and, worried that she'd ask before he could intervene, he opened the drawer. He had to shove the room's free bible out of the way to find a condom. He turned back, quickly ripping the packet with his teeth, hoping to preempt any words she was considering on the matter. He was fleetingly reminded that she wasn't having sex with her boyfriend, the brilliant doctor; she was having a fling with a fugitive.

Her body settled over him again. There were a few awkward breaths while they both decided if they should continue or take advantage of the break in the torrent of insanity to call it off. Cuddy moved up on her knees, but asked, "Do you want to stop?"

"No," he answered right away and then, almost painfully, asked, "Do _you_ want to stop?"

She almost nodded before the nod became a confident shake, and she replied, "No…I don't."

At that point, the decision had been made. She lifted up and rocked her hips with even precision, allowing him inside her. She noticed that he was trying to breathe with slow, controlled measure as they began. After a few seconds of stillness, he began touching her skin again with a tenderness that seemed to be in the wrong place and time.

The instant familiarity faded into something more awkward and uncomfortable. The rhythm and motion that was once so practiced and familiar eluded them. Frustrated by the fact that something that once felt so good seemed so unsatisfying, he paused. Cuddy's shoulders were tight against her neck, her body rigid and tense, her jaw clenched and eyes pinched shut.

"Could you relax?" he asked, gruffly.

She glared, retorting, "I am relaxed."

He sat up, bracing on his elbows, and said more reassuringly, "I'm not making you do this."

"I didn't say that you—"

"I'm also not trying to start another war," he interrupted.

Shifting his weight onto one arm, he brushed the backs of his knuckles up her inner thigh. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her torso against his. He moved his face against her neck, kissing pulse points and the line of her jaw, calling on his memory of things she liked, and she felt tension abate as arousal spread warmly throughout her body. He started to move as she unwound, lifting up to her, using his arm to guide her body in time with his. She almost tried to resist the fact that it felt so good, but the will for resistance was quickly shattered. If they'd hoped that they could share something purely sexual and devoid of emotional entanglements, they were failing.

"Better?" he whispered in her ear.

She softly moaned her response with a staggered exhale as her body started to move in the flowing, seductive way it used to when they were in bed together. Her hands grasped for his shoulders, keeping her body against his as he dropped back down to free up his other hand so his fingers could glide over her clit. Her smooth, graceful motions became rougher and more determined. There was so much anticipation that she could practically feel the orgasm before it hit. She had no desire to divert from that path, and neither did he. It was an indulgence of the most decadent variety. She'd missed coming like _this_. He spoke again, his voice less calm and more demanding, "Tell me it feels better like this."

He watched her face as she nodded, her mouth opening slightly before she bit down hard on her lower lip and cried out at the intensity of her release. He came with her, delayed only by a few heartbeats, his defenses temporarily forgotten as he was consumed by a flashing moment of unhindered pleasure.

When his mind started to reemerge from its disconnected state, he felt her hips still circling lazily against him as she sought to extend the last few pulses of ecstasy for as long as they could last. The entire encounter spanned only a few minutes, but it almost felt like there was an echo, a reverberation of their actions that continued beyond the deed.

Their heavy breaths and passing sighs hung in the air. There was near contentment on her face and then she looked down at him and her eyes fell on a thin scratch along his neck and chest that she was quite certain she'd put there. Reality came thundering back.

She crept off to the bathroom. After splashing water on her face, she stood and caught her reflection in the mirror. She saw her shoulders and chest, covered in abraded patches from his scruff. Her finger touched her lower lip, knowing that through everything that had just happened, they hadn't kissed even once.

Her legs felt a post-orgasmic unsteadiness that was compounded by the overall unsteadiness that she felt. No matter what her mother or anyone else thought, a few short weeks ago, House was still 'dead,' work and home were operating under their usual schedule and everything was under control. A few weeks ago, she wasn't with him in a motel room in the middle of the day when she should have been sitting in her bright, orderly office. It seemed like from the moment House re-entered her life, everything was in chaos.

The fact that nagged at her most was the knowledge that she was a full partner in nurturing that chaos. They may have been manipulated into attending counseling, but she'd offered him a ride and wanted to be invited into his room. She'd had ample opportunities to leave before things got so carried away. She remembered the staticky chill she felt when he'd asked her if what he was doing felt better. Even the way he asked felt good.

Even more unsettling than all of her other realizations was the fact that she knew if she could step back in time, she'd still offer him the ride back to his motel.

She opened the bathroom door and saw one of House's shirts hanging on the knob for her. "Thanks," she said while she picked it up.

He was sitting on one of the chairs near the door, his legs stretched out and jeans already on. He didn't look directly at her, casting his eyes respectfully away. As soon as the shirt was on, he cracked open his door and lit a cigarette.

"I thought you smelled like smoke," she mentioned.

He held the pack out to her and she quickly shook her head to decline the offer. He sat with his cigarette, wordlessly blowing the smoke mostly through the opened door except for the wisps that lingered in the room.

She started tentatively, "House, wh-"

"Don't bother," he interrupted. "I already know. We shouldn't have done that, can't do that, won't do that, should be flogged for doing that, and we can't let it happen again. Did I cover it all?"

"I wanted to ask what time Wilson gets back from chemo."

He turned quickly, searching her for signs that she had lied. When he was satisfied that she hadn't been lying, he pinched the cigarette between his lips, pulled his cheap cell phone from his jeans' pocket and checked the time, "Around three-thirty. A half hour or so."

"Is it that late? I have to go—"

"You don't have to make excuses, Cuddy. If you want to go, just go."

"I'm not making excuses," she said as she sat on the chair across from him.

Ignoring her statement, he answered, "We should have done that more before."

"Had sex?"

"Had _angry_ sex. Would have been more fun than talk therapy. Probably would have worked better."

"You think we didn't work out because we didn't have angry sex?"

"Just one thing in a long list of things."

"We did have angry sex. Remember after that picnic at the end of summer?"

"That wasn't angry sex. That was drunk sex. It's not the same thing at all."

"Well, I was angry."

"No you weren't. You were giggling. When you were angry you didn't giggle. When you were angry, you wouldn't let me anywhere near you."

"That was hardly our biggest problem. When you were angry…," Cuddy's thought disappeared and she asked, "Have anything to drink? Preferably something without alcohol?"

He pointed at the mini-fridge. House watched her dip down and look through the variety of sugar-laden, caffeine-filled options and beer. She stood without making a selection, instead pulling the plastic cover off of a disposable cup and filling it with tap water.

When she sat back down, he asked, "When I was angry? You were going to make some observation about me and anger."

"I'm not interested in fighting right now."

"You think you're going to say something that's going to make things worse between us? Just say it."

"I was going to say that …when you're angry, you're belligerent and difficult, but your anger never scared me. When you're hurt…that's when I don't know what to expect."

He finished his cigarette, closing the door and sliding down in the chair, leaning back and closing his eyes. She started to gather her clothes and dress while she still scanned the room with some wonder.

"You act like this is a foreign country," he mumbled. "I guess for you, any lodging with less than four stars is medieval."

"Look, if you guys need some money for nicer-"

"I don't need money. This is the life I've chosen. It suits me better than wearing suits and playing doctor used to."

"But you wore jeans and sneakers, not suits. And there was a time when you loved it, House. I remember. You…you were an amazing doctor."

"That's not me anymore."

"I thought people didn't change," she chuckled, sadly. "Isn't that right?"

He lifted his head, watching her slip her shoes on. "People don't change. But they do die. _Doctor_ Gregory House is dead."

"But he isn't. He may want people to think he's dead…but he's right here. If I have to deal with the fact that he's still alive…so do you."

When she was finished getting ready, she said, "I'd stay a little longer, but I have to go see my…I have something I have to do."

"You need to go see your daughter? You don't have to act like she doesn't exist. I remember her."

"I need to make sure I'm doing what's best for her."

"Of course you'll do what's best for her. I'm assuming she's at school? Unless you tell her, she doesn't need to know about any of this. It was sex, Cuddy, we didn't get married, there's no lasting penalty that needs to be paid. I'm back in your life in a pretty limited capacity. In a few weeks, I'll either have to disappear again or I'll be in jail, but either way, I'm not your problem."

She stiffened her jaw, brushing imaginary dirt from her sleeve before she asked, "That's your master plan?"

"I don't know that I can attest to any mastery, but that's my plan. What do you think my other options are? I faked my death and fled to avoid prosecution. Before that, I broke the terms of my parole. Then there's identity theft, there's the matter of the guy who they thought was me, records tampering…I left a hell of a mess behind that I wouldn't have left if I had any intention of ever returning. So either I face the music, which I'm guessing probably adds up to an absolute minimum of five-to-seven when I barely survived a year locked up before, or I run again. Like I said, none of that is your problem."

She stared at an ancient stain that even the hideous mottled carpet couldn't hide and sighed. "Sometimes I forget how screwed up this whole situation is, at least for a minute or two. But I really do need to leave, Rachel has a meet. Thanks for the…just sex."

"It was great sex. But it always was. At least for me." He flinched slightly at the words that weren't quite what he wanted them to be, but at the same time, far too much. With his most casual and unconcerned expression, he asked, "What kind of meet? Rachel…what does she play?"

"You don't have to feel obligated to ask."

"You wanted to see inside my motel room," he flippantly replied, "just thought I'd look around in yours for a minute."

"See ya," she said, opening the door and stepping outside.

He leaned back again, pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes. He could hear the door nearly shut, but never click. Groaning because he realized he was going to have to get up to push the door shut when his leg hurt as badly as it did, he placed his hands on the arms of the chair to stand when he heard Cuddy say, "I signed her up for gymnastics…dance classes too. I figured she'd like one of them."

He sat back down, surprised that she was still there, and responded, "Alright."

"She was terrible at both of them and acted like I was dragging her to the dentist, but she had so much energy, and she really needed an outlet. She didn't really seem interested in anything."

"Drums?" he smirked. "You'd love drum practice."

"The gym I go to has a pool. One day it was so hot, so I took her along. I could barely get her out when it was time to go. She wanted to swim all of the time, I thought she'd grow gills. I guess she found her niche. She loves it, and she's pretty good at it. And on the days that she swims, she is completely passed out by eight-thirty without the usual pre-bed bargaining to stay up."

"Nice. And you try to attend the meets?"

"I've been to every single one. I promised her that I would. There were times when I stepped through the door at the last second, but I've never missed one. You should see how she…never mind," Cuddy caught herself mid-sentence, finding her phone and showing him a picture of the girl. "Here. That's after her first official meet. She came in second even though she's one of the youngest ones on the team."

House nodded affirmatively at the picture, "Good for her."

"So that's where I have to go. It wasn't an excuse. It's a swim meet."

She started to the door again, and turned back, "Why does something so messed up feel so normal?"

"I don't know."

"I don't know how I'm supposed to handle any of this. I have no idea how I'm even supposed to feel."

"In our case, 'supposed to' doesn't apply."

The alarm beeped on her phone and Cuddy quickly silenced it, "That's my reminder. I'll see you next week."

When Cuddy was gone, House flopped back in bed and closed his eyes. He drifted off for a little while before he heard Wilson knocking. House answered the door, blinking through the light. "How'd it go?"

"As expected. I feel fine for now. Tomorrow night, I'll probably feel bad. For now, I'm hungry. You want to go with me?" Wilson asked.

Wilson came in and sat down. He noticed House staring at a tee shirt that was too neatly folded at the bottom of the bed. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. You woke me up, so give me a minute and we'll get out of here," House answered, picking up the folded shirt that Cuddy had worn for a few minutes before she got dressed in her own clothes again.

He and Wilson spoke little while they called a taxi and took a ride to a nearby restaurant. After they were seated, House was using a fork to make a pattern in the butter on their table when Wilson asked, "Are you sure you're alright? What are you thinking about?"

"Rachel."

"Cuddy's Rachel?"

"Yeah. She swims."

"OK. Did you teach her to swim?"

"Nope."

"You liked swimming when you were a kid?"

"Not particularly. It was fine, I guess."

"So what's the big deal?"

"Cuddy wanted the kid to learn dance or gymnastics. Rachel didn't like those…she wasn't good at them. She liked swimming. And Cuddy…let her swim instead."

"You're surprised that Cuddy let her daughter do something she enjoys?"

"Cuddy had this whole detailed image in her head of the things that Rachel was going to do. She had it planned out. I remember because I may have made a few slightly unwelcomed comments about over planning and the kid's right to exercise a little free will. Swimming was not part of the original plan."

As Wilson answered, House faded out of the conversation. He turned his head, resting the side of his chin against the front of his shoulder. He swore he could faintly smell Cuddy in the fabric of his shirt even though she had only worn it for a few minutes. He could still feel the spots on his side and shoulder where she'd held onto him so tightly that he thought she might never let go. He could even remember the way her grip relaxed and, for a few short seconds, her fingers wandered idly over his skin.

"Hey! What's that look?" Wilson asked persistently, waving his hand in front of House's eyes.

"That's the 'damn that steak looks good' look."

"No. That wasn't the steak look. You looked…slightly less unhappy. What's going on?"

"I always look like this around you, sweetie," he said, trying to bat his eyelashes.

"You know what I think," Wilson said assuredly. "I think that crazy old woman might be on to something."

"The woman in room three with the canned spaghetti and a hotplate? I was thinking we should invite her for poker night."

"Not her. Arlene. Maybe this therapy is exactly what you need."

"Extremely unlikely. Trust me, it's the steak. If the baked potato comes loaded, be prepared for an all-out joy frenzy."


	4. Vestiges

_A/N-Regarding questions about the title, I don't really want to say much about it at this point. Hopefully, when the time comes, it will make sense. Sorry for the delay in this chapter. _

_Thanks to all who left a comment: IHeartHouseCuddy, freeasabird14, LizLo, KiwiClare, JLCH, housebound, jaybe61, Bere, BabalooBlue, OldSfFan, Vast Difference, Suzieqlondon, DziecieElfow, lin12344, Bladesmum, CaptainK8, Abby, HuddyGirl, Alex, maya295, lenasti16, Sandy, Carly, Naomi, grouchysnarky, Melanie, ikissedtheLaurie, Miranda, Alejandra Guzman, Shevek, Mrs. Strangelove, aussifan12 and the Guest reviewers._

* * *

**-Vestiges-**

To say the next appointment with Michael was 'awkward' would be a terrible understatement. They hadn't seen each other or spoken since the day they'd been alone in House's motel room. They were face-to-face with each other again in the waiting room under the watchful stare of Arlene and the concerned eye of Wilson. When the rabbi came from his office to lead them down the hall, he noticed when Cuddy gently tugged the edge of House's sleeve to signal for him to come along. She didn't actually touch _House_, but it was far more intimate a gesture than anything else that he'd seen between them.

Michael began to ask them about issues of honesty and trust while they paid attention to varying degrees. "Part of building a relationship of any kind between people who feel so betrayed is figuring out how to reestablish trust. This is perhaps one of the most difficult pieces of the puzzle in this case. The one thing that I can see and hear from both of you is the feeling of betrayal, loss and hurt. Those betrayals come in the forms of things you actively did to each other, and in the form of broken expectations."

"Broken expectations," House pondered aloud. "So I need to rebuild the trust that was broken because I couldn't live up to her standards?"

"You obviously expected something different from me too," she countered.

Michael held up a hand to pause them. "So, Greg, you think that the broken expectations were an issue because her expectations were impossible to reach."

House shook his head. "She knew me for years, she knew who she was getting."

"Lisa, you seem frustrated by his answer."

"Do you know how many sexual harassment suits were posthumously settled for you at Princeton-Plainsboro?" Cuddy asked House directly.

"No. But then I have no reason _to_ know. And neither do you," House answered.

"I didn't go looking for the information, it came to me. Seven suits in the first six months after your _death_."

"Half of them were probably people trying to make career moves up the ladder and hoped to rattle Foreman's chain…manipulate him into giving promotions."

"These weren't coworkers…these were patients. Women. I have no idea how many internal complaints there were, and I didn't ask."

His rapid blink and the slightest narrowing of his eyes showed his surprise that he hid otherwise. Finally he shook his head, "Perhaps I wasn't in peak form after you left. And Foreman wasn't as good at keeping me in check as you used to be."

"So you're saying it's _my_ fault?"

"If anything, I'm saying it's Foreman's fault."

"You complain that I wanted to control you, but you're upset that I wasn't around to control you? Those sound like pretty impossible expectations."

"I didn't complain that you wanted to control me. I complained that you expected me to change. They're not the same thing. You always tried to control me, and I was perfectly comfortable with that as long as you understood that I wasn't going to change. That's how we worked for years, you tried to control me while I found ways around it."

"Did you want a girlfriend or a mother?"

"I wanted the same person I'd always known. If you feel the need to further label that, that's on you."

"Well, I _wasn't_ good at keeping you in check. I think that was proven."

Somberly he answered, "You did better than anyone else has. You were different once we were together."

"Because we were in a relationship other than boss-employee. I may have been different, but there are two sides of you that I can't seem to merge. It's hard for me to reconcile the man I trusted…the man I trusted personally, in my home, intimately, the man I trusted with my little girl—"

"I never did anything to hurt her. She liked me," he answered, fully prepared to defend.

"I know she did. I'm not even worried about that. That's exactly why it's so hard to reconcile," she calmly replied. "My point is…that I don't get how a man that I trusted so much could be the same man who would do some of the things you did."

"Is that why you were scared to tell me she preferred swimming to gymnastics? To protect her? We're supposed to be building trust here and you could barely let me in on that little bit of information."

"I'm cautious. And so are you."

"I trusted you too. You lured me into believing that you wanted me, that you could actually be with someone like me. You _convinced_ me. And I believed you."

"Part of what's interesting here," Michael said as soon as there was a pause, "is the fact that not only do you seem angry with each other, but you're both angry with yourselves for trusting in the first place. Perhaps a good place to begin would be to forgive yourselves for trusting each other. Stop thinking back on your relationship as a lapse in your defenses." Neither of them answered, so Michael continued, "Although that's _certainly_ not the most interesting thing that has come to light, is it?"

House and Cuddy both looked at him, waiting impatiently for him explain himself.

Michael looked between them and asked, "When was this discussion about Rachel?"

"Rachel?" Cuddy asked while her mind traveled to the moment when they had had that discussion.

"I've been repeatedly surprised by how little her name has come up during these sessions, and I'm quite certain the conversation about her swimming did not occur here."

House winced almost imperceptibly as he realized his error. Cuddy caught his look and said, carefully and without technically lying, "House and I sometimes talk in the hall or in the waiting room."

"That sounds like a conversation that lasted longer than a few seconds in the hall."

House turned slightly toward Cuddy and said, "I shouldn't have brought it up."

Michael tapped the arm of his chair with an open hand and said, "You can barely stomach sitting together for an hour once a week, but you chose to meet outside of this office? You each tell me that you don't trust each other, it is apparent to me that you don't trust _yourselves_ with each other, so why? And before either of you try to mislead, let me tell you that I have a beautiful view of the parking lot from my desk. I saw you leave together, but neither of you have mentioned that. I suspect you wouldn't have mentioned it, at least not purposefully."

"But I _do_ trust him," Cuddy argued defiantly, provoking a wide-eyed, slightly open-mouthed stare of surprise from House. "I feel like I shouldn't, but I do anyway."

Michael let the words settle in, watching while House seemed to struggle to comprehend her confession.

"Have you spoken to your sister?" Michael asked Cuddy when it was clear that they weren't about to offer any addition information about their meeting.

"Of course, why?"

"Well…your mother told me things didn't work out with the old farmhouse they bought to fix up."

Cuddy's shoulders dropped, "The roof really did cave in, most of the plumbing and electrical needed completely redone. And they had a mold problem. The place was the very definition of a lost cause."

"So they gave up?"

House leaned his mouth into his knuckle and seemed disproportionately wounded at the news as he remembered the metaphor.

"They did," Cuddy admitted with a resigned nod. "It wasn't even inhabitable. So they cut their losses and moved on. It was the best choice, given the circumstances."

"True, it was probably for the best for their own safety…and to avoid additional financial and emotional strain."

Silence itself was a presence in the room while House and Cuddy stared off in opposite directions.

Michael stated, crisply fracturing the pause, "So they're homeless now? The children are living on the street?"

She turned with a little confusion and began, "No, of course not."

"You said they gave up."

"On the crumbling farmhouse. Not on a place to live."

"What did they do?"

"They called a contractor. They're having a new place built." Cuddy stalled when she saw House's shoulders weren't as heavy, and she asked Michael, "Your point is?"

"Your sister didn't _give up_. She realized that the farmhouse was unfit. So she and her family left the unfit residence in the hopes of finding a _home_. They learned lessons from their failures and rebuilt. Obviously neither of you are really willing to give up on each other, in spite of your rather vivid attempts to convince me otherwise. If you really are not ready to give up hope, you have to accept the fact that the relationship between you, as it existed before…is unsustainable, dangerous even. It's time to abandon what has so obviously failed, to see if there is another way. If you keep trying to return to the same place, you will find the same problems."

They spoke little more throughout the session, lost in thought while Michael repeatedly tried to engage them. "Next week," Michael said, "I'd like to hear one thing that you took from your previous relationship that you liked. Something that brought you joy or made your life better. Pick this one feature and actively decide that you want to include it in whatever relationship you choose to build. Also, I want you to be able to name one specific thing that will make a relationship completely unsustainable for you, one thing that you know cannot be included in a future relationship."

"So you think we should start…dating?" House asked with the utmost confusion.

"Relationships come in many forms. You'll have to decide what you want, what is possible. I'd recommend strongly against pursuing a romantic relationship, but the one thing that seems clear to me is that the two of you are going to do as you wish, regardless of my advice."

* * *

Wilson and Arlene were still sitting in the waiting room when the session was over. "Have any evenings free for coffee this week?" Wilson asked Cuddy.

"Tomorrow night. Rachel has a sleepover, we can get dinner if you want," Cuddy awkwardly answered while House stood a few steps behind her.

"I can't do tomorrow," Wilson answered.

"Sure you can," House interrupted. "It's just a poker game. Go do your boring Cuddy-coffee-food thing, and then come back when you're done."

"It's just poker night," Wilson admitted.

"No problem," Cuddy replied. "Next week."

"Or you could come to poker night," Wilson carefully suggested.

Arlene, House and Cuddy all stared at him as if he'd suggested the most outlandish thing they'd ever heard.

"Are you both alright with that?" Wilson asked, nervously adding, "It _could_ be fun."

Arlene glared holes through his chest and finally answered, "I guess it would be OK."

"You do know that Cuddy turned eighteen a long time ago, right?" House asked.

"But you haven't," Arlene retorted.

"Don't worry, your favorite child, by which I mean Wilson, will be there. I doubt I'll try to have my way with her on the table during the game if there are other people there."

"Mom," Cuddy answered, "thank you for your concern, but isn't that what you wanted…for the two of us to get along?"

House was less patient, approaching the older woman and complaining, "You forced us into a cage together, forced Wilson to make a choice he didn't want to make, and now you want to control the outcome of that? You can put objects in motion but you can't control where they land."

Arlene didn't respond the way House would have suspected. She wore a knowing grin, and she faced House, saying, "James, do you want to tell them about the phone call you received a few moments ago?"

Wilson's eyes flashed at the secret as he slowly nodded, "The PA called. They did a PET scan a few days ago to make sure they were hitting the right notes with the chemo. After only a few treatments, we're seeing about a ten percent reduction. Ten percent might not sound like much, but for this early in the process, it's definitely heartening. They're making a few adjustments but…this certainly isn't _bad_ news."

Cuddy hugged Wilson before he was even done speaking. House, on the other hand, turned to Arlene and mumbled, "You act like you prescribed the chemo."

"I might as well have," Arlene answered.

"Tomorrow night we can celebrate," Wilson said as Cuddy pulled away. "Maybe I'll be around for many more poker nights."

* * *

Playing cards, like so many of the things they did in each other's presence, was somehow more complex because they were both involved. Cuddy sat across the table from him, specifically choosing that spot when other seats were available. It was as if they were finally allowed to look at each other without arousing suspicion or risking rejection. The fact that she called his bluff twice actually made him feel good. He still felt like he could read her without really even looking.

Gertie, the woman from a few doors down with a penchant for canned spaghetti, was already drunk when they started playing. Bill, the maintenance worker for the motel, was shy but a formidable player. Cuddy had no idea who Charlotte was, but the unknown woman was clearly was quite smitten with Wilson, although it seemed obvious that her affections were not returned.

Wilson kept smiling approvingly between his friends, feeling, for the first time since his diagnosis, that things were really going well. After a few hours of play, Wilson offered to walk to the corner to pick up pizza, and Charlotte eagerly offered to go with him. Cuddy decided to go get ice rather than sit and attempt conversation with the very drunken Gertie. House followed a few steps behind.

The ice machine was in a laundry room, poorly lit by one working fluorescent bulb that had survived the three other bulbs in the room. The fixture was so old that it still hissed like distant, synthesized applause. As soon as Cuddy was in the laundry room, believing she was alone, she stood with her fists on her hips and took an exaggerated breath. He couldn't tell if it was from tension or relief. She stretched, the subtle cracking sounds in her neck obscured by the loud crashing of ice from inside the machine. He limped past her to the back corner of the room, placing his cane on the top of a washer and leaning back against it.

"Trying to pawn me off on Gertie?" House asked.

"I didn't want to be accused of cock blocking," Cuddy answered wryly.

"When it comes to Gertie, I welcome all forms of blocking."

He seemed to remember something suddenly. Stepping over to one of the dryers, he opened it and pulled out a deeply creased tee. He half-heartedly shook it and folded it in half.

"When did you put those in there?" she asked.

"Yesterday," he half mumbled with the lose speech of sleepiness and a little too much alcohol.

"You want some help un-wrinkling them?"

"Sure."

She walked over, digging down into her jeans' pocket for a few quarters. He watched, his expression as creased as the clothing he'd removed. Gathering the two pieces he'd removed already and throwing them back in the dryer she asked, "You washed everything together?"

"Saves water. I'm all about the environment. And saving quarters."

She dropped the coins into the slots and loudly slung the door closed, watching him rub his thigh as he dug his pill bottle out from his pocket. Wilson's suggestion that House had quit taking Vicodin seemed unlikely. Her eye caught the edge of the label, something that seemed familiar, so after he took some, she held out her hand and waited. She was initially surprised when he placed it in her palm, the pills rattling within as it came in contact with her hand.

Turning the bottle so she could see, she read the name of the hospital, of _her _hospital. The edges of the label were soft and worn, and many of the words had faded, but she could see her own name. In their later years at PPTH, she'd prescribed Vicodin for him relatively few times. He usually didn't ask her.

Her thoughts scattered as the irony of the bottle overwhelmed her. She could feel the memory of discovering he'd relapsed, remembering with sickening clarity his expression when she'd ended it, and yet the one memento of her that remained in his life was a bottle of Vicodin that had been prescribed by her. At the same time, she'd found evidence of what she'd subconsciously looked for in his wallet days earlier: proof that she still existed in his world while they were apart.

He had few possessions anymore. Since he'd returned, she wondered how thoroughly she'd been stricken from his mental photo album, and then she saw the bottle. Her thumb ran subtly over the letters of her own name as she shook her head, "Isn't this dangerous to have? If you're arrested, and they trace the prescription, they might figure out who you are."

"If I'm arrested, they probably _already_ know who I am."

She opened the lid, feeling his discomfort at exposure without even looking at him. Inside the bottle she did not find Vicodin. A couple of different NSAIDs were tucked within, but she didn't see anything that he couldn't buy over the counter. "Are you clean now?" she asked.

He nodded just enough to answer the question with as little emphasis as possible.

"Why wouldn't you tell me that?" she asked, whispering the question with near reverence.

"Why create expectations that I probably can't live up to?" he finally answered after a thoughtful pause.

Carefully replacing the lid and pressing down to make sure it wasn't about to pop open, she allowed her thumb to trace the velvety-soft label one last time before she held it out to him. He tucked it safely in his pocket again before she asked, "Do you worry? I mean about…getting caught."

"Always figured I'd be able to hide until after Wilson died. It didn't seem like he would make it for long, and I wasn't all that interested in whatever happened after that." There were a few moments where the only noises were ice, lights and dryers before House asked, "I want you to do something."

"What?"

"If I get caught, you'll make sure Wilson—"

"Oh, god, yes," she answered immediately. "I'll make sure he's alright."

House nodded with relief over a stress that he hadn't even acknowledged he was carrying. "What do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you want in exchange for doing this? Like…payment."

She stared into his still-worried eyes. A million answers flowed through her mind, answers full of quixotic reassurance. Dismissing them as unbelievable, she answered, "I care about him too. You don't have to _do _anything."

"You washed stuff for me a few times when I used to stay with you," he noted, redirecting the conversation. "Just stuff I'd leave on your floor and it would get mixed up with your stuff."

"That bothered you?"

"I liked it."

"Well, now you have something to talk about next week when Michael asks about one good thing from our relationship."

"That's just clothing. I knew what I liked before he asked."

"Sex?"

"I liked that too."

"But sex _wasn't_ your answer?" she asked, turning toward him with authentic interest.

"There were a few months… You wouldn't flinch if I got too close, or get pissed if I grabbed your ass, or act weird if my clothes got mixed up with yours. You started being near me like it was normal, sitting closer to me at work, things that other people do, except we were doing them. Sex is easy to find, don't need a relationship for that. I think we proved that last week."

"I always thought you hated too much closeness."

"Not from you. I didn't realize how much I didn't hate it until you started keeping that huge House-free zone around you."

He turned around, leaning his elbows on the top of the dryer and watching the dial slowly turn.

She came closer, leaning similarly against the appliance next to his. "What would you do if, after everyone else left your room tonight, I came back?"

He paused for a few seconds then asked, matter-of-factly, "What do you think I'd do?"

"I'm so happy that Wilson is showing progress. But I know what that means for you…and me. Michael said we should try to decide on the best metaphorical place to live, but it doesn't really matter. Wilson's chemo will last eight more weeks, maybe twelve, then you'll be gone again. We both know I'm not going to take my daughter out of school and live life on the run with you, even if things between us could be better. We can't even consider anything beyond the two or three months that you're trapped here."

"You aren't going to call the cops once he's done with his chemo?"

She shook her head almost immediately. "Maybe we could still see each other every few years. If Wilson has follow-ups or…"

"You want me to keep in touch while I'm on the run?"

"I don't want you _not_ to. I was trying to figure out what we should and shouldn't do, as if we needed to consider the long-term arrangements, but all we're really left with is what we _can_ do during this little window."

"So when I swing by every few years, if you're not happily coupled, we'll get together, fight about everything we still haven't resolved, maybe have sex, and I'll be on my felonious way?"

She gazed forward, her eyes cast softly but full of saddened resolution. "I'd rather have something than nothing. And I miss…the feeling of you."

"You cringe at the feeling of me," he said, standing up, one hand still braced on the dryer as he faced her.

"I miss it."

In a moment of impulse, he side-stepped until he was behind her, placing a hand firmly on her hip. He was certain she'd pull away like she did before, tense up or push back, but she leaned her back against his chest and sighed calmly. Her eyes were closed, while she accepted the closeness, brushing away reservation in favor of remembering some of the things about the two of them that felt nice. She waited for what seemed inevitable, a rough grope, something emotionally dismissive to neutralize the affection that was in the air. Part of her craved that, wanted his ability redirect their feelings into something basic and tangible that seemed to lack the complications of nearly everything else that occurred between them.

He reached across her, pulling her against him. His palm pressed along the top of her chest, his thumb gliding smoothly along her neck. Her body didn't resist, folding into the embrace even though it wasn't what she had anticipated, appreciating and fearing it all at once. Her hands reached back, wrapping around his outer thighs just below his hips. Neither of them had the energy to resist, each craving a piece of something that was long lost but usually too painful to admit was missing.

He followed the shape of her body, smoothing along the side of her breast, down her side and slipping under her top against the skin below her belly button. Her hand moved between them, reaching under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. She moved back against him again, her own shirt lifted slightly from their activities as their bodies pressed together. The bared sections of skin met, that small piece of contact between her back and his abdomen was somehow more intimate than days earlier when he was actually inside her, when they'd made each other come with as little connection as possible.

She turned her face toward him while her arm swooped behind her and encircled his neck. The first whispered moan was overtaken by the screeching of the legs of a table being moved across the yellowed linoleum.

They both turned to the source of the unwelcomed noise and found Gertie stumbling into the room. She finally noticed they were there when they disentangled and made efforts to look nonchalant, "Thought you two fell into the ice machine."

Although they'd mostly separated, Cuddy still leaned one shoulder against his chest while they watched the drunken woman. Gertie coughed wetly in the direction of the bucket before filling it with ice. Cuddy stared on with horror while House whispered, "If they offer you a drink, skip the rocks."

Cuddy softly chuckled, barely a reaction at all, but the most uninhibited display of happiness that he'd seen from her in years. He couldn't believe such a subtle reaction from her could make him feel that good.

Gertie turned, with unexpected frustration, entirely unaware and unconcerned with what she'd interrupted, "We're waiting on you. The pizza's back and we're gonna start playing without you."

The drunken woman stumbled out, ice crinkling in the bucket as Cuddy said, "What are we waiting for?" before she started to walk away. She stalled, turning back and asked, "So what _would_ you do if I came back after everyone else left?"

"I'd let you in. And you know it. There will never be a different answer to that question."

The dryer buzzed, reminding House of the clothes he'd forgotten about yet again. He reached in, gathering his belongings and shoving them into a pillow case that he pulled from the freshly cleaned clothes. The case was so small and the clothes so tightly packed that Cuddy knew they'd be wrinkled again by the time he removed them. "Come on before Gertie hacks all over the pizza," he said as he limped past Cuddy to return to the game.


	5. Undertow

_A/N-Thanks again for all of the interest and words of encouragement. I know sometimes the delays are longer than I'd like, but there's a lot going on right now. I won't abandon the story, so bear with me if it sometimes takes a few extra days._

_Thanks to all of last chapter's reviewers: IHeartHouseCuddy, housebound, OldSfFan, JLCH, Abby, Jane Q. Doe, gildedlily89, jkarr, freeasabird14, jaybe61, Karen, lin12344, HuddyGirl, lenasti16, ikissedtheLaurie, LizLo, newsession, LoveMyHouse, Suzieqlondon, Huddyphoric, BabalooBlue, JM, bere, sallen151, Boo's House, MissBates, RochelleRene, Guest Reader, Bakerstreet Blues, Sarah, Vast Difference, Alejandra Guzman, Addie and the Guest reviewers._

* * *

**-Undertow-**

After the poker game, House was still awake, sitting on the plastic-slatted chair outside of his room. He wasn't waiting for Cuddy since he was sure her suggestion was rhetorical, but shortly before sunrise, she returned. She got out of her car, gazing back through the window while she locked it. She actually nodded to herself as if a decision had been made before she approached.

"If you're here to test the theory that my door is always open to you, you picked the perfect time since my door is, very literally, open," he said once she was close.

Looking at his door and then the pavement, she worriedly near-smiled, answering, "That's not exactly why I'm here." He watched, patiently waiting for her explanation. "I don't want to know if you _would _let me in out of some obligation or because we have history. I want to know if you _want_ to," she added.

He wrinkled his face in a sleepy scoff, standing and holding onto the door jamb as he stepped into his room because he'd left his cane inside. He held the door open, and she followed. Sitting at the chair by the door, he grabbed a pocket in her jeans and pulled her directly in front of him as soon as the door was shut. His hands surrounded her hips, holding her firmly, steadily. His fingers delicately lifted her shirt, skimming his fingertips along her stomach so faintly that it almost tickled.

His eyes gazed up at her, holding the stare. As he opened the button on her jeans, he asked, "You think this is out of obligation too?"

While he kissed the skin just below her waist, he tugged open the zipper roughly before he dragged her jeans down to her knees. Pulling her panties to the side, he delved through her folds with his tongue. His lack of hesitation, so distant from the reluctance that surrounded so much of them in recent days, was liberating.

She kept trying to push her jeans lower because she didn't like the way her legs were tethered together, but he didn't ease his focus on her body or help her undress. He was too preoccupied. Content with being able to free one leg, she braced her foot on the arm of his chair and leaned her upper body back on the shaky table. There were so many sensations in rapid succession that she couldn't identify individual actions or pieces of what he was doing. She just knew that her entire sex was met with the most careful, full, stimulating pleasure.

Her head lulled to the side, savoring every sensation, until the phone rang in his room. He ignored that phone, even though the caller hung up and rang again. But then his cell phone rang, and the ring tone caught his attention, especially given the early hour. He placed his hand flat over her sex, his thumb still sliding along her slit, and he answered the phone, "You okay?" As he listened, his thumb stopped moving against her before he answered, "Be there in a minute." His shoulders slumped a bit as he hung up. "Sorry," he mumbled toward Cuddy. "We need to reschedule. Wilson can't stop puking, so his oncologist wants him to come in."

"Oh god, is he alright?" Cuddy asked, standing, trying to stick her foot through the inside out leg of her jeans. "I can drive you."

"No. He'll worry that you were here. It's just nausea from the chemo. I'd take care of it myself but my pharmacy access is severely limited. I'll call a cab."

"Alright."

"I wouldn't have answered but he doesn't usually call unless—"

"It's fine. Remember all of the times Rachel interrupted us. There was that whole month when it seemed like she woke up every single time that—," she smiled, sadly, abruptly interrupting her own words.

"The _Intruder Alert_," he recalled.

She smiled, remembering the night when he'd coined the term in a moment of absolute frustration. It only took a few seconds for her to dress again, but she slowed before she left. "Can you call me and let me know if he's alright?" she requested as she scribbled her phone number on the edge of one of the pizza boxes from earlier.

He nodded, and when she was half way out the door he asked, "Is that the only thing that number works for? Giving you Wilson updates?"

Shaking her head she answered, "It works for all kinds of calls, not just Wilson updates. Keep it."

She received a text from House a few hours later that Wilson was fine. Medicine eased his nausea, but they wanted to keep him for observation for twenty-four hours. It was an easy Sunday with a relaxed lunch and a much needed nap after a long night. Rachel was finally home after her sleepover, and Cuddy planned on spending some time with her daughter. Things had been so chaotic that Cuddy worried about whether the girl was getting the attention she needed. While they ate lunch and talked, Cuddy realized that Rachel seemed largely unaware of exactly how much was going on around her.

When Wilson called Cuddy late that evening, he asked, "Have you heard from House?"

"Not lately, why?" she answered.

"Well, I told him to go out for a while. He was sitting here with me since early this morning, but he seemed tired…kind of distracted. I wanted to make sure he made it back to his room, but he's not answering his phone."

"Probably because he's sleeping," Cuddy answered, feeling concerned even as she tried to ease Wilson's fears.

"He answers when I call. This has been…a lot to deal with. For all of us. I'm not saying that it's _bad,_ but he's worried about me. As much as he loathes admitting it, he's worried about _you_."

"Dealing with all of this again has been difficult."

"Can you check on him, please? Make sure he made it back?"

She looked at her daughter on the sofa, staring with total concentration at a video game, and Cuddy replied, "I'll work something out."

As she hung up the phone, she thought about who she could call to watch Rachel for an hour because she didn't want to alert her mother. Wondering where House could be or what state he might be in, flashes of other timely arrivals sprung to mind. Considering some of the ways she'd found him before, Cuddy was worried about what Rachel might see if she were to come along. Then Cuddy wondered if she, herself, was prepared for what she might find.

Her thoughts were disturbed when her daughter paused the game and climbed over the back of the sofa. "Rachel," Cuddy corrected, "I told you not to climb on that. Walk _around_ the furniture."

Rachel didn't answer at first, nor did she run up the stairs, so Cuddy walked through the doorway between the rooms and saw her daughter staring out the window. Rachel quietly called, "Mom?"

The child's stiffness and the distant sound of her voice alarmed Cuddy, "You OK?"

The girl continued to stand still, her body rigid and alert, so Cuddy approached, ready to ask what was wrong, and then she saw House. He was standing on the porch, backlit by the setting sun as he leaned against the railing.

"Jake _said_ ghosts were real," Rachel added, still fixated on the man outside. "That's him isn't it? Your friend from when I was little."

"That's him," Cuddy nodded. House and Rachel both looked so dazed, and unless she wanted reality TV ghost hunters or cops on her lawn, Cuddy was going to have to explain things very carefully. Although she'd dreaded the possibility of her separate worlds colliding, once it was happening she found some relief in no longer being responsible for keeping things apart. "Stay here, I'm gonna talk to him."

"Wait," Rachel yelled. "We need leaves. And Latin."

"Leaves and Latin?"

"We burn the leaves and say stuff in Latin. Do you know Latin?"

"Some…from pre-med, but I don't think the words I know are going to help you much."

"And iron, like one of those sticks for the fireplace. We can hit him with it, and he'll disappear. Ghosts always do."

Shaking her head, Cuddy answered, "But he's not a ghost, so we're not going to hit him with a fireplace poker." She sat on the sofa, keeping her eye on House through the window. "Rachel, where did you get this _information_?"

"Jake. He showed me videos on his phone. He's eight," Rachel answered like Jake was wise with age.

Cuddy saw House glancing back at the road, likely trying to decide whether or not he wanted to leave, so she had to hurry, "Rachel, he's not dead. I need to go talk to him before he leaves. I will explain this to you, but promise me you won't tell anyone about him. Don't mention ghosts or that he was here."

"Sure," Rachel answered casually.

"This is important, Rach. I'm trusting you. Stay here. I'll see if he wants to come in and then I'll explain what's going on."

Cuddy opened the door, letting him see her through the screen because he seemed skittish and she didn't want him to leave. Once he acknowledged her, she opened the screen door, and stepped out, "Wilson's worried. He tried to call you."

House glared down at his clothes, feeling for his phone. "I needed a minute."

Rachel, exhibiting her own tendency toward choosing curiosity over obedience, had come out to see what was going on. "I told you to wait inside," Cuddy told her. Rachel studied him, but did not move. "Rachel," Cuddy said with a voice that could not be disobeyed, "wait inside. I'll be there in a minute."

As soon as the girl was indoors, House mumbled, "I didn't even think about her being here."

"It's fine," Cuddy said, leaning against the railing near him. "I'm going to have to explain things to her though. She wanted to hit you with the fireplace poker." He glanced over at her, questioning. "She thought you were a ghost and someone told her that iron—"

"Dissipates ghosts. Obviously," House answered, like it was a reasonable reaction to his presence. "I shouldn't have come here."

"You're here now, so come inside."

"This is problematic because you're alright with being in my world, but you're not alright with me being in yours."

With careful thought, Cuddy nodded, "There may be some truth there."

"The rules are different for you and me."

She shook her head, "They shouldn't be different. Come inside. Let's call Wilson so he doesn't decide to leave AMA and come find you. He needs to rest. You probably do too."

He looked up, "With Rachel here? What are you going to tell her?"

"The truth," Cuddy answered, waving him inside. "You can come in, if you want to."

He felt entirely out of place when he first entered. He was sitting in the living room alone with Rachel while Cuddy called Wilson. The home was extremely clean, but the level of disorganization was higher now that Rachel was older. The girl was playing a game and watching House out of the corner of her eye. He'd never seen the game before, and he realized how much he missed playing.

"I remember you," Rachel said, smashing buttons on the controller.

"Oh?"

"You were Mom's friend. We took you to the hospital. You were sick, all sweaty. I remember."

House nodded. He had spent more time with her than he had with any other child, but her entire memory seemed to be reduced to a single late-night car ride. "Bad night," he answered.

"Mom said you were dead."

"I'm not."

"Are you sure?"

""Fraid so," he answered, reaching for the fireplace poker and holding it in his hand. The girl watched, staring at the spot where his skin touched the metal. She seemed relieved, but he admitted, "This isn't iron. It's some cheap metal alloy."

Rachel kept playing her game but suspiciously added, "If you're not dead, she lied to me."

"Talk to her about it."

"Well did she lie, or didn't she?"

"She thought I was dead. She didn't lie. I lied."

Cuddy stood at the edge of the room, watching them. When she was noticed, she said, "Rachel, pause your game."

House sat through the story. It was carefully abridged, and wisely so. Cuddy explained that she and House had a big fight that lasted for months. They were both very angry and very hurt, but they couldn't see each other for a while after that. She told Rachel that House had a problem with drugs and that he ended up in jail. Cuddy said she felt guilty that things went so wrong and she was unable to help him. She told the girl about Wilson, and why almost everyone thought House was dead.

The whole thing was summed up in a way that didn't include blame or hostility. Both House and Cuddy wished things were that simple.

* * *

After Rachel had gone to bed, Cuddy looked out her living room window and saw House sitting on the porch. His wallet was on the small outdoor table, and the top was covered in the scraps of paper she'd seen in his wallet. He was writing something in one of Rachel's notebooks on lavender colored paper. His forehead was braced on his thumb, a cigarette held in the same hand sent smoke drifting into the still air around him. It was a sight that was becoming as familiar as his orange prescription bottle had once been.

"So when did you start smoking?" she asked as she stepped onto the porch.

"I didn't mark the date. And I'll have to quit soon enough."

He stayed focused on his task, writing something down on Rachel's lined paper for each of his scraps. Cuddy saw the name of a storage company and asked, "What are you doing?"

"I'm out of moves," he replied.

"What? No. You aren't."

"I am. I mean, there are moves, but none that won't fuck up things for Wilson. And you."

"Wilson is doing great," Cuddy answered encouragingly. "He has a chance to get through this."

"Sort of my point. If Wilson is alright, he needs a life. A real one. He'll need to be monitored, attend appointments. He can't be riding around the country, staying in low budget motels."

"You're leaving," she stated with icy realization. Her voice became tense, "That's _it_? You're just dropping everything and running away?"

"If I stay, you and Wilson are as fucked by my choices as I am. You won't be alright with hooking up with me once or twice a year. You know that. Either you're going to make a huge mistake and wait for me to come around again, or one day I'll knock on your door, and…a guy is gonna answer. While I'm sure that's what's best for you, what's best for _me_ is not to have to see it."

"Because I moved on so well the last time?" she sarcastically retorted.

"It's better if you do."

"Why do you say things like that?"

"Because it's true."

"Maybe Wilson doesn't want a _real_ life. Maybe he wants to stay with you. I'm not ready to forget about you."

He ignored her, motioning her closer to look at what he'd written. "These are all locations where I have money or some of my things. I haven't been to a few of them in a while, so some may still have Vicodin that I didn't have the chance to get rid of. You can do whatever you want with it, get rid of it, sell it, donate it to the poor. I don't care." When he pointed at the paper, he said, "The first line is the location. Most are storage units, but there are a few safe deposit boxes. The second line is the storage spot at each location. Locker numbers, box numbers. If there's a—"

"I don't want it," she said, shoving the notebook across the table. "I don't want your _stash_." She was still shaking her head.

"Then leave the Vicodin and take the money."

"I don't want the money either. That's why you're going to have to quit smoking? Isn't it? You think you're going back to prison?"

He nodded. "I _know_ I'm going to prison. You can convince Wilson to continue the chemo now that it's working. Use the money to cover his costs. You have a guest room, let him stay."

"You're basing your decisions on assumptions that you think are truths. But they are just assumptions."

Ignoring her again, he dug out a small cloth travel bag. He unzipped it, showing her the keys that were inside. He grabbed the notebook again and pointed, "If there's a combination lock, the combination is written here. If the lock requires a key, here are the keys." His face was devoid of emotion, like he was giving instructions before he left for vacation.

"You aren't even considering any other options?"

"I did consider. Now I'm choosing the most rational option."

"No you aren't," she said, balling her hand into a fist and becoming louder. "Did you even try to talk to a lawyer?"

House sat back, letting her question ring unanswered for a moment while he took a final drag of his cigarette and snuffed it out on the ground under his sneaker. "You want to fix my legal issues, or you want to fix me? Neither of those two problems is yours."

"I'm not trying to _fix_ you…I'm trying to _help_ you. There's a difference. I think if we take some time to think, we can come up with something that—"

"We? Pretty sure _you_ aren't going to prison. There's no _we_ here." He found his cane, handed the notebook to Cuddy, and said, "I'm going to Trenton tomorrow. Go get the money. Look out for Wilson."

"House," she argued while he walked past her.

He turned back, some of the hostility gone from his face, "Goodbye, Cuddy."

One day ago she'd admitted that she needed him in her life, and then he was walking out of it. She had trouble believing that a few more years of incarceration could possibly help him. Part of her already imagined the crushing notification call she might receive from prison officials. The scenarios that flung through her head seemed poised to extinguish any embers of hope. She froze as she braced for the impending impact. Like standing in the ocean before a storm, she felt the current pulling at her ankles, threatening her footing as the water was sucked back from the beach and swelled to an enormous wave that she couldn't possibly avoid when it came crashing down.

"Dammit," she said with complete exasperation, watching him while he picked up his phone to call for a taxi.

While he was on hold, her mind started to reach for answers. She wanted to grab the phone from his hand, scream at him to fucking listen, part of her wanted to try to slap some sense into him, but nothing seemed like it would be effective. And then she did the only thing that was left to do. Her mind didn't really even consider it; it was the only next move she could make. She took two long steps toward him, grabbing his face between her hands, and she kissed him. Her mouth met his in a demanding appeal. She licked the space between his lips until he parted them slightly, but otherwise he didn't react. With the same swiftness with which she decided to kiss him, she stopped, lowered back down, and took a step back.

He stared at her like she was a patient he'd thought was cured who suddenly exhibited a new symptom. His tongue ran across his lips, trying to decide if what just happened was real. "Why did you do that?" he asked, leaning down just a little toward her like they were discussing a secret he didn't want anyone to overhear.

Closing her eyes, Cuddy shook her head. She couldn't deny the hurt, and the sense of desperation as she watched time slipping away, but she knew she wasn't going to be able to stop him. When presented with the chance to have House leave her life again to be locked up for years, she refused to take the opportunity. She heard the voice on the other end of the phone offering him help, and Cuddy asked, simply, "Do you have to leave _this second_?"

House tentatively paused, looking away from her and thinking while the voice on the other end of his phone kept asking if anyone was there. After what seemed like days, he hung up. "I could stay tonight. I left you hanging this morning…"

She dropped back two steps, landing in the chair while she leaned forward and braced her head in her hands. "Is _that_ what you think I'm trying to do?"

He hesitantly stepped forward and took the seat facing her. "I have no idea what you're trying to do. I would think you'd _want_ me to turn myself in. You worry about every little, insignificant guideline, but breaking actual _laws_ is no problem?"

"I _do_ think that you need to get your life back, but that doesn't mean you have to fly full speed into this without considering the best way to do it. Can't we talk to a lawyer, someone who understands criminal law? Why wouldn't you try that?"

"We again?"

"I'll find a lawyer. You don't have to follow their advice, but just figure out what your options are. Give it two weeks. If you don't like their suggestions, you can go to Trenton then." Her elbows were on her knees as she leaned forward, her hands folded as she waited for an answer. There was no apparent change of heart obvious in his expression. Finally deciding that House's path was not about to change, she reached out one last time. Her finger hooked the collar of his tee shirt to keep him still for one last moment and she said, "I…am going to miss you."

She leaned slowly toward him, her lips parting before they met his. After a quick thump of reluctance, he realized he didn't feel like resisting. In seconds their mouths were melding with heavily intense devotion. He stopped kissing her long enough to ask if he could stay. Taking his hand, she brought him back into her home.

While she turned out the outdoor light and latched the lock and deadbolt, he stood behind her, reached under her shirt and surrounded both of her breasts with his hands as he smashed her back against his chest. He slid one hand down her stomach, covering her still-clothed sex with his hand and pressing in pulses against her. Her hands braced, fingers splayed, against the door. His mind was diverted, already considering what he had, what he wanted, and the discrepancy between them. She wriggled back against him while he licked at spots along her neck, and she gasped, "Not here."

He paused, mildly stunned, "No?"

Since his grip was looser, she turned around in his arms, "I don't want my daughter walking in on anything."

Blinking a few times, the realization hit him that Rachel was no longer confined in a crib overnight. "So we can't—"

"We can, just not here. It would probably be better if you're in the guest room when she gets up," Cuddy suggested. He didn't care where he was as long as he could have her again. Going down the hall, she flipped on the light to the guest room and said as she fell against him, "Here we are."

He clicked the lock on the door and, without looking around the room, said, "Love the motif."

They found themselves in bed, clothed, writhing against each other. Their hands located perennially familiar lines and curves of form and figure. As he exposed her breast and pulled her nipple into his mouth, she sighed a barely spoken string of words before her hand reached out to the cold piece of uninhabited bed beside her, and her mind realized the possibility that he still might be gone in the morning.

"I want the truth," she requested. His head nodded, but he wasn't about to move his mouth away from her breast. "Are you still going to Trenton tomorrow?" At that, he paused, looking into her eyes. Cuddy's brow furrowed as she said, "I want to be with you tonight either way, but I want to know if…this is it for the foreseeable future."

His hands moved to her hip and to the back of her neck, and he kissed the corner of her mouth. "I'll hear what the lawyer has to say. But I'm not making any promises." Relief, victory, and the promise of sex mixed into one inseparable emotion as she turned her thoughts again to what they both wanted.

"Judging by your reaction, I'm guessing that works for you," he observed. "And since I'm around for a week—," his breath hitched and words paused from the way she was touching him, "or two…and we're forced to have our weekly fight with a rabbi referee, maybe we could—."

"That's what I was thinking," she interrupted. Speaking against his mouth, her lips brushing his lightly with each word, "We can at least have after-fight sex."

"Have a little fun while we can…"

"Release tension…"

He pulled her against him, his hands sweeping across increasingly bare expanses of skin. Though their words had assured each other this was about carnality and desire, the corresponding actions refused to follow suit. The affectionate way his tongue sought out hers in a kiss, the feeling of an open palm sliding across a shoulder, or any of the hundreds of independently insignificant micro-touches joined the wordless sounds that spoke volumes about the emotions that would remain unverbalized. He burrowed an arm against the mattress under the small of her back so he could hold her tightly against him, guiding her to a better angle as they both hummed their approval in response to the shift. Her hand cradled his jaw, her fingers brushing against his ear and the edges of his hair. As he buried his face against her neck, his body confessed things his conscious mind would not admit. Sleepiness and emotion imposed a certain heavy quality that made the encounter a near polar opposite to their previous angry fuck in his motel room. This wasn't fighting. Each offered a reprieve from the hostilities that overwhelmed them in recent days. Nothing more was said, little _could _be.

He naturally dropped onto his back and pulled her along with him as they rebounded from an exchange that was more demonstrative than they were ready for. Cuddy was aware that she didn't immediately extricate herself from him like she had the last time they were together. Her mind questioned exactly what she should do next. "I can go…" she offered and waited.

With some trepidation, she lifted her head, fully expecting to see a scowl or at least the same discontented uncertainty that she had found earlier in the day, but his expression told her little. One corner of his mouth twitched a few times though his eyes were softly closed. Her hand rested on his chest and she realized while she felt his deep, slow, easy breaths that he was asleep. She whispered his name to make sure he was sleeping, and found herself empathizing with his exhaustion. She wondered if he'd slept at all while he waited at the hospital with Wilson. Her fingers dragged along his stubbly cheek, glancing subtly over his lower lip with the back of her knuckle. His eyes fluttered behind his eyelids, so she quickly pulled her hand back. House, still asleep, tightened his arm around her as he sunk further into the bed before he sighed contentedly.


	6. Harboring

_A/N-Thanks to this last chapter's reviewers: jkarr, IHeartHouseCuddy, OldSFfan, ikissedtheLaurie, Addie, freeasabird14, KiwiClare, JLCH, housebound, lenasti16, BabalooBlue, MWoods, huddyphoric, Naomi, jaybe61, Little Greg, lin12344, Abby, sallen151, HuddyGirl, Alex, Suzieqlondon, LoveMyHouse, Vast Difference, LizLo, maya295, CaptainK8 and the guest reviewers._

_Still slow and steady with the updates. This is a pretty long chapter, since i didn't want to break it into separate pieces. Hope you enjoy it._

* * *

**-Harboring-**

There was no denying that months of cheap mattresses were difficult for a body like his. He closed his eyes, not wanting to surrender to alertness just yet. Footsteps could be heard thudding on the floor above him so loudly that he wondered if Cuddy had an elephant living with her. The footsteps progressed down the stairs, and House could hear the muffled chatter on the other side of the door. The little girl talked a _lot_. He heard her coming closer to his room, so he pulled the covers up around his chest and closed his eyes so he could pretend to be asleep if she happened to open the door. Cuddy's voice could be heard too, and was met with Rachel's counter argument and then a trudge away from the guest room door.

Looking at the clock, he assumed the child would be going to school soon, and he felt it was best to wait until she was gone to emerge. He sat up because his leg, back and shoulders couldn't take lying down any longer. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he realized that Cuddy had taken care of the condom since he must have fallen asleep immediately after sex. He wondered if she was pissed. As he stretched, he saw a pile of things she had left for him at some point: towels, a toothbrush, and a bottle of ibuprofen. He scowled at them across the room, although he wasn't exactly sure why he was irritated by their presence.

A little later, after he heard the front door open, he came out from the bedroom to assess the damage. Cuddy was standing by the door with a mug of coffee. Taking a seat on the recliner in the living room, he said, "Do I have to shower before I can leave my room?"

She turned a little, but largely kept her gaze focused outside. "Good morning, House," she answered, adding sarcastically, "You're in a pleasant mood today." A car beeped its horn, and Cuddy waved and smiled at what House assumed must have been Rachel as she caught a ride to school. Cuddy turned once the car was gone, closing the door and saying, "What's the problem?"

He rubbed his leg roughly. "I saw the towels, but I didn't have time to read the handbook. Am I required to shave too or—"

"You are _looking_ for a reason to be angry," she interrupted.

He turned his attention to Rachel's stack of games so he could pretend that he wasn't thinking about the accusation. "I don't have any clean clothes here. I'll shower at the motel," he finally answered with less irritation.

She nodded toward the kitchen and he followed. Pointing at a cabinet, she said, "Since you find hospitality so offensive, help yourself. Breakfast stuff is in there. Coffee cups are above the coffee." She grabbed her computer and her mug before she sat down at the kitchen table.

House pulled his phone out of his jeans and realized it was dead. "Wilson called already," she said without looking up. "Don't worry, I told him you were sleeping in the guest room because you were too tired to go back to the motel last night. He's being released this morning. We can pick him up at nine."

"Don't you have a hospital that needs you?"

"I'm answering emails from home and going in as soon as I drop you and Wilson off at your motel."

House opened the cabinet and glanced over the contents. He turned his head to argue or dismiss or somehow push, but he stalled when he saw her tapping away at her computer. For the moment, even though they were arguing, she seemed to have forgotten that she was supposed to be uncomfortable around him.

* * *

Wilson was being sent home, but his oncologist was hesitant. The cancer was responding to the treatment, but Wilson was already battling infection, and they were concerned that his compromised immune system could lead to other problems. He was quiet on the ride back to the motel, insisting that he was tired after not sleeping well at the hospital.

Cuddy opened the door to Wilson's room and could immediately tell it hadn't been cleaned since the last time he had been there. The room still reeked of vomit and sickness, the bed hadn't been made, and damp towels were strewn across the floor. House stepped inside, and she could see the worry immediately returning to his face. Cuddy suspected it would be a matter of minutes before House decided, once again, that his best option was to turn himself in so Wilson would seek better accommodations. She went into the bathroom to start cleaning up some of the mess. House insisted that he and Wilson switch rooms. After Wilson was sleeping in House's room, House returned to find Cuddy. She was trying to clean up the bathroom a bit, but was already dressed in work attire, so it was difficult. House leaned against the bathroom sink, and, in spite of his silence, she could hear his mind racing. "They don't clean here for you?" she asked.

"Only if you hang the sign out. When we left I wasn't thinking about it," he replied.

"This place isn't good for him."

"It's so obvious that _I told you so_ seems redundant, doesn't it? Isn't that exactly what I was trying to explain to you last night?" House was scanning the room, the severity of the situation weighing heavily upon him. He was beginning to wish that he had left for Trenton so Wilson was no longer trapped by their transient lifestyle.

"There's more than one answer to this problem. I have room."

House looked up at the ceiling, watching droplets of brown-tinged water forming around the light as he considered her suggestion. It seemed like the only answer, and he knew whenever he would decide to turn himself in, Wilson would end up staying with Cuddy anyway. A few of the droplets of water on the ceiling grew large enough that they fell to the ground, and House decided the time had come to officially end Wilson's road trip. "I'll get his stuff together."

She nodded with approval, "Good. I'll be back this evening to pick you both up. I have a meeting until six, so I should be here by six-thirty or seven. Should be enough time to pack up your rooms." When she saw the suspicion on his face, she groaned, "What, House? What crazy theory are you formulating now?"

"I'm coming too? I don't have cancer so why do I have to go?"

"You don't _have _to. But I work all day. Someone should be with him."

"You get that that would mean I'd be living there…in your _home_? Unless your plan is to have me stay in the garage."

"Temporarily. This isn't a romantic proposition or a commitment. It's practical. It'll be easier to take care of him with both of us there. Plus Wilson will worry if you're here and he's there, so you'll spend half of your time at my place anyway."

After consideration, he observed, "_Wilson_ will worry?"

Cuddy heaped some garbage into the overflowing can before accepting that nothing else would fit. "Yea, _Wilson_ would worry. Anyway, you can save money…for your defense_._" He didn't answer, continuing to ponder the suggestion, and she started to worry about his impending response, so she busied herself by tossing the used towels in the tub. After she was finished picking up the floor, he still hadn't answered, so she added tiredly, "If the suggestion is that terrible—"

"Can we still have sex?" he interrupted.

Her eyes widened and she answered, guardedly, "As long as we're careful not to get caught, I don't see why not. If anything it seems more convenient."

House stood from his leaning position and answered, crisply, "Fine. We'll be ready by six."

He headed for the door, but before he was out of the room she called for him, "House? While we get him settled, is it okay if we put off seeing the lawyer for just a few days?" He nodded once, his eyes knowingly smiling just a bit, although the rest of his expression remained stoic.

* * *

Moving House and Wilson into her home went much more smoothly than she had expected. House offered to take the sofa in Cuddy's home office while Wilson took the guest room. Rachel seemed suspicious but curious about the visitors. She remembered Wilson a little more, since he had seen her a few times after she and her mother had moved.

They all ate takeout at the dinner table their first night together as Wilson's appetite showed modest signs of improvement. Rachel helped to carry the dishes and throw out the garbage. As Cuddy was turning on the dishwasher, the little girl stood expectantly behind her, "Mom, can I now?"

"Homework's done?" Cuddy questioned.

"Yup."

"Anything we should talk about from school?"

"Nope."

Cuddy dried her hands on the towel, reached up for a timer on the window sill and nodded, "Go for it."

The men watched as the little girl ran at full speed from the kitchen to the living room. "What just happened?" Wilson asked.

"She wants to play her game," Cuddy answered.

House walked to the window, picking up the timer and gasping with horror, "A half-hour? That's all the time she gets?"

She stepped closer, took the timer from his hand and replied, "It's called _good parenting_."

"It's called cruelty," he answered, maintaining the focus.

Cuddy nodded and quipped, "Cruelty is the number one goal as outlined in my five-year parenting plan. If you had read the handbook, you'd know that."

He stayed where he was as they revived their old familiar standoff, Wilson sitting at the table, wide-eyed behind them. House took the timer back, turning the dial back five extra minutes before he returned it to the window sill and smirked evilly. "Do I get my own half hour, or does she have to share hers with me?" he asked Cuddy over his shoulder while he went to join Rachel.

Wilson watched Cuddy as House left. She glanced at House for a split second as he disappeared from the room, absentmindedly scratching a spot just below her ear as a smile graced her features briefly. Her attention turned to Wilson as if she hadn't been interrupted by the exchange with House. "Want anything to drink?" she asked, politely.

Ignoring her question, Wilson asked, "Are you two... _getting along_?"

"No," she replied sternly with a brisk shake of her head before she sat down next to him.

"It looked like you were."

"He thinks I'm a bitch, I think he's an ass…status quo."

"_Right_," Wilson answered with a slow nod. "Obviously. This isn't at all like stepping into a time machine."

"This isn't like when we were together."

"I know. It's like _before_ you were together."

Her eyes narrowed with a denying scowl before she changed the subject, "So, Wilson, since you seem to be doing better, I was wondering if you were considering any career plans."

* * *

Rachel looked up when House entered the living room and asked, "Wanna play?" Before he even answered, she hopped down onto the floor to open the cabinet beneath the TV. As she pulled out the other controller and hooked it up, House noticed a carefully labeled, see-through plastic box. Inside the box was a gaming system: the one he had bought to keep at Cuddy's place. He could see the games piled on top of it.

* * *

A few days later, they met with Michael again. They seemed prone to argument whenever they entered his office. Michael asked them to answer the questions from the previous week. They were supposed to discuss something they had liked about their previous relationship and something that would make a relationship unsustainable.

House hated that he was called out first, so he answered as quickly as possible, "I don't want to be in a relationship where I have to wonder if being me is going to end it. This is the only me I can be."

"Acceptance is important," Michael answered, "to feel loved and valued in a relationship, we need to have that sense of being understood…of being welcomed as we are. And what did you like? What would you like to bring with you into a future relationship?"

"This is stupid. She already knows."

"How do you know what she knows? Perhaps you think she knows, but her interpretation is different. If you want a relationship at all, each of you has to communicate your needs clearly so there is less room for misinterpretation."

"She knows because I already _told_ her," he answered, digging his knuckle into his forehead while he leaned into the corner of the sofa. Michael continued to wait for House's answer. "Fine," House said reluctantly, "It was nice to be wanted somewhere, to be…not a nuisance. For a few days, she wanted me around and I _liked_ being around, just doing normal things. Then I went back to being a nuisance."

"Sort of two facets of a similar theme...being accepted, welcomed. Perhaps to be cared for—"

"I didn't say I wanted to be _cared_ for."

"Is there something wrong with wanting to be cared for? Isn't that part of a relationship too? Looking out for each other?" House didn't answer, so Michael turned to Cuddy, "Lisa, your responses to last week's questions?"

Cuddy answered, "I don't want to be considered his archenemy. I think that sums it up best. He acted like he had to sneak around, lie, hide things from me. We never acted like we were on the same side of anything. That worked, in a way, when I was his boss. It didn't work in a personal context."

Michael nodded, "An atmosphere like that could make any relationship difficult to sustain. Often couples unite over those shared battles and enemies, or over jokes. It can be very important bonding behavior."

"And what I liked," Cuddy continued without being prompted, "House was exciting. He was challenging, sometimes fun and I always felt very…desired. Once we were dating, it wasn't as fun anymore."

"Kind of hard to have fun when my girlfriend was annoyed by almost everything I did," House answered.

"What about now?" she countered. "Even if I try to do something nice for you, you assume that I'm trying to make a point. The other night I put out towels for you and a few things I thought you might need. What's more welcoming than that? You chose to see it as an insult when I was trying to make you more comfortable."

"I've learned what to expect."

"But we're trying to do something different and you won't even give me a chance. How well would this work if I was constantly anticipating that you were going to plow your car into my home?"

"You probably _are_ anticipating that."

"No," she shook her head, "I'm not. If I thought you would do that, we wouldn't be talking anywhere outside of this office. You definitely wouldn't be staying with me. I need you to try to give me the same chance I'm giving you. It's not easy, because when I try, I get hurt."

"What have I done to hurt you lately?"

"What about the morning before you moved?"

"I didn't do anything."

"Right, I'm making it all up," she said, shutting down.

Michael encouraged, "If he doesn't know what happened, you need to explain it to him. And Greg, if you want the answer, you need to listen." Growing a little more frustrated, he added, "Two parts to this, yes? One talks, one listens. Then you switch."

"Well, if we switch, technically that's four parts," House snidely responded. "Can you jot that down for me so I remember the order?"

Michael tilted his head, summoned some patience, and continued, "One talks. One listens. If you want it to work, the person talking tries to communicate honestly, and the person listening tries to be open to what is actually being said. How well it works depends on the efforts of both parties."

Cuddy took a breath and continued, "As soon as I saw you, you were angry, pushing me away. We were…getting along well the night before. Obviously you had regrets about that. Maybe you just wanted to make it clear that we were only going to _get along_ in certain ways."

He could hear the hurt in her voice so clearly that he didn't want to look at her and see it. Clenching his jaw a few times he finally said, "I didn't regret anything."

"So why was your response angry? Or at least something she could interpret as angry and regretful?" Michael asked.

House dropped his head back against the sofa, feeling the discomfort of exposure, "I dunno. Anticipating her regret? Waiting for her to remember who she's dealing with?"

"I never forget who I am dealing with," she immediately replied. "I wouldn't put up with this for anyone else. Neither would you. I have accepted some pretty big mistakes. I think I have been _beyond_ understanding. I welcomed you into my home. Is that not a huge demonstration of forgiveness and trust? The thing is, you _hope _for the worst in me. And I think I know why that is…"

"I can't wait for you to tell me."

"Because you _want_ to be angry with me. You want to do whatever you can to avoid being happy."

"There isn't much to be happy about. You think if I walk around with a stupid fucking grin on my face that it's going to help something?"

"No, I don't. But I think life might not seem like endless drudgery if you tried to find little breaks in the misery."

"Because_ you're _so happy?"

"I have moments. I'm not exactly the poster girl for bliss, but I can smile. You used to have those moments. I remember seeing you less miserable, I remember seeing you have fun. You've lost that, and you don't even want to _try_ to get it back."

"Must have something to do with being dead."

"You dismiss any act of welcoming or kindness as some kind of trick or manipulation. I've only seen you happy one time since you've been back." He kept looking away, so she continued, "When you were asleep the first night you stayed at my place, you smiled. Part of you liked being there with me, but you couldn't even admit that while you were awake."

When there was adequate pause, Michael rubbed a wide hand down his face and sighed, "Does this mean that in the space of a few weeks you've decided to complicate this already over-complicated situation with co-habitation and sex?"

House answered, "This isn't about a relationship. I'm staying at her place, but it's practical."

"Of course it is," Michael replied, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair as he thought. "I don't understand why you both continue to make this more difficult. Ordinarily in cases like these, I'd suggest that you find another counselor who could help you, since I don't seem to be reaching you."

They both felt a swell of worry at the possibility that the deal they'd made with Arlene would crumble. Cuddy imagined her mother calling the authorities to report House and the chaos that would follow. Summoning her professionalism, Cuddy countered, "What can we do to convince you we're serious?"

Michael waited through a few cycles of breath and answered, "You continue to make progress, albeit modest, in spite of yourselves. And you were both prepared to discuss what I had asked you to discuss at this session. I'm not sure if these sessions are helping or if it's just dumb luck."

"Either way, we don't have a problem," House casually bargained.

"In order to love and be loved—"

"I don't do love."

Michael focused on House with a long, piercing stare, but continued, "In order to love and be loved, one must accept a certain degree of risk. There is the risk of getting hurt, and the chance that you're wrong. You also have to find a way to be open to the potential of receiving kindness or affection. Normally I would advise taking more gradual, careful steps as you work through the issues you've faced. I had suggested you try riding a bicycle together for a while…you both decided to board a rocket instead. You can't choose the rocket and cling to the earth for safety."

"Maybe we could try a moped for a while," Cuddy offered, diplomatically.

Michael shook his head. "You could. But you won't. So fine, I can accept that you have chosen the rocket. Now you must decide if you're going to let go of the earth, hop off the rocket completely, or be ripped in half by trying to cling to both. I'll see you next week."

"We've only been here for twenty minutes," she informed him.

"I've had enough for today. You both do whatever you want to, today it is my turn. I'm going to go hold my grandson because, oddly enough, a colicky infant is less frustrating than dealing with the two of you."

House smirked, rolling his head to face Cuddy, "I think this is like a special reward."

Michael's eyes were tight with frustration as he said, "I will see you next week. Try to be open to the possibility that the other person may actually care about you. If you see the other being vulnerable…try not to make them regret it. Maybe try enjoying each other's presence since you both obviously want it." Cuddy held the door open as House limped through and Michael added sarcastically, "If I find out next week that you decided to get married for _practical purposes_, we're through with these meetings."

* * *

After the session with Michael, House was adrift in contemplation. He didn't seem frustrated or even worried, just distracted. The conversation at the dinner table was more animated as Wilson was feeling much better. Rachel started asking him questions about the treatment, and he seemed excited to answer. Cuddy's participation in the discussion lessened as she became more preoccupied with House's silence. Like she had so many times before, she wished she could figure out what he was thinking. Wilson took Rachel to the computer to show her some sample scans, and House and Cuddy were left in silence.

Cuddy started gathering up the utensils from the table and said, "Funny how Wilson talks about this stuff and it's the most interesting thing she's ever heard, but I mention anything remotely related to medicine and she runs away screaming."

House hadn't said anything apart from one-word answers since they'd left Michael's office. Ignoring her comment, he pointed at one of the dishes and said, "This didn't look good at all."

"Why thank you," she dryly answered.

"I mean it didn't look like something I would like. But it tasted good."

"Oh," Cuddy answered, sitting back in her seat. "Good."

She waited worriedly. Apart from that short outburst of thought, he remained silent. Leaning her forearms on the table, she pushed his hand to get his attention and whispered, "Are you in a lot of pain?"

He turned his focus on her and seemed to do a brief self-assessment before he shook his head, "Nothing abnormal."

"Alright," she said with an attempt to appear unworried. She could remember countless times before when he'd been like this. When they were dating, she would wonder if he was preparing to end the relationship or if he was quietly falling deeper in love. His moods could be both inscrutable and mercurial, so she often had no idea what to expect. She loved and hated that about him.

He said little else, and when dinner was cleared, he disappeared into his room. She wondered if there would ever be a day in her life when she wasn't prepared for him to disappear again.

* * *

When Cuddy got out of the shower later that night, her phone lit up and displayed a simple text: _Waiting._ She smiled at the message, toweling off and dressing. She was already anticipating another secret fling with him. They found time over those previous few days when Rachel was at school and Wilson was in the shower, or late at night when everyone else was asleep.

After she was ready, she checked on Rachel before she went to House's room. She could see him sitting on the sofa, peering around the television to look at her. Patting the seat, he said, "Curious about something…" She sat next to him, and he pointed to the screen, "I can't think of anyone with the initials M-O-M."

Cuddy recognized the old game immediately, "As I'm sure you've already figured out, it's me. Are you with the video gaming commission? Am I in trouble for not using my legally recognized initials?"

"You beat my high score," he accused, now obviously out of whatever trance he had been in earlier.

"So did Rachel," Cuddy grinned.

"Only because I had this game for about a week," he challenged. "I wasn't here to defend my title, so it's unfair."

"Fine. Wipe out the high scores. You can have it back, Rachel has her own game stuff now."

"I know. Rachel has very nice _game stuff_, but that's not the point. I'm going to reclaim my spot at the top," he said as he dropped the controller in her lap.

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"You want to play a game…with me?" House nodded, quickly reaching over and hitting start. Cuddy looked down at the controls, trying to remember what to do. As soon as she remembered, she saw her ship explode on screen. "That wasn't fair."

"You've lost your touch," he answered as he took the controller from her hands. "My turn."

He was quickly navigating through the first few screens, and she shook her head as she had a realization, "Is this what you were doing all evening? Practicing?"

"Don't hate me because I'm a superior gamer."

She glanced over at him while he was playing. He was in an old shirt and pajama bottoms. His hair was jutting in every direction as he obviously didn't comb it after his shower, and he looked more alive than he had in a long time. She tightened the silky robe around her shoulders as she felt a chill and he glanced over at her. The moment his eyes left the screen, his turn was over.

She gracefully extended her hand to wait for the controller. He argued, "You were trying to distract me."

"By _closing_ my robe?"

"Fine, Cuddy, play innocent," he said as he pushed the controller back into her hands.

"You're such a sore loser," she teased while she began to play. It didn't take her long to remember the controls. It was a simple, arcade-style game. When she almost met his score from the previous round she grinned proudly, "And I didn't have all evening to practice." Grabbing the controller from her hand, he started his next turn.

The friendly competition was familiar, something like arguing or sex that they could fall into naturally. They went back and forth a few times and, surprisingly enough, he noticed Cuddy smiling on occasion. At one point, she nearly danced in her seat for a few seconds before she handed him the controller. But with his next turn, he came even closer to beating her high score. "Enjoy the leaderboard while you can," he bragged as she took the controller.

She didn't even bother with a retort. Her eyes concentrated on the game as she set out to prove her ability to him. Her certainty faltered when she felt him lean over and press his chin lightly against her shoulder. Focusing harder, she asked, "You're not that confident if you're resorting to distraction techniques."

He didn't answer, but he leaned in, moving steadily closer. While his face was only an inch or two from hers, he gathered her damp hair and pulled it away from her neck and shoulder. She jabbed his side with her elbow, less than half-heartedly trying to deter him, as she tilted her head in encouragement. She could feel his snicker, but as he kissed from the cap of her shoulder to her ear, his snicker didn't bother her in the least. "Keep going. I think you're actually improving my game," she encouraged.

His fingers followed the silky band that lined one side of the opening of her robe the whole way down her body to her upper thigh, and then his fingers slipped under the band and felt her body beneath the robe. He skimmed the bare skin along her thigh and the smoothness of the delicately thin top. With his breath warm against her neck, he slid his hand under her top. His thumb rubbed against her taunt stomach, moving higher until his finger barely brushed the swell of her breast and she muttered, "Dammit."

She was only fleetingly disappointed in her score, putting the controller on the sofa behind her as she turned to him. Her lips brushed his chin before they moved against his. The kiss broke as he said, simply, "My turn," and reached behind her for the controller.

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of frustrating her, she waited for him to begin his turn. House knew she'd seek some vengeance, but he would have been equally happy with shattering her high score or having sex, so either outcome worked for him. Folding her legs up under her body, she gained enough height to easily whisper in his ear. Her fingernails scratched subtly at the back of his neck, and his shoulders rolled forward a little like she knew they would. He could sense the shape of her mouth from the way her lips moved against his ear. "I hope you're not just teasing me, House," she said so quietly that he had to concentrate to hear her. "I enjoy a game, but sometimes a woman needs…_follow through_." He was involuntarily leaning closer to her as she spoke. Her tongue flicked his earlobe before she whispered, "Actually, I was thinking that what I really wanted to do is wrap my lips around your—"

"Fuck," he groaned as she heard the sound of his game ending. Immediately, he explained, "Before you get that victory look, the untimely end of my game had nothing to do with you. It was a really tricky part."

"Was it?" she asked while she pulled the controller from his lap, her hand purposefully fumbling around.

Before she could begin her turn, House had opened her robe and was removing her shorts. When he realized she wasn't wearing any panties, he felt a sense of satisfaction that there was something she wanted from him that he was perfectly willing to provide. He liked that she was anticipating sex with him, as if he was expected to be there. She didn't make any sort of attempt to dissuade him when he pulled her hips closer and guided one of her legs over his shoulder. Leaning back of her own accord and letting her other leg fall open, she did nothing to deny his advances. He seemed amused by her cooperation, so she said as she continued to play, "Did you think I was going to resist?"

He kissed her thighs, his hand pressing against her abdomen barely above her sex, allowing the answer to come gradually, "I know how competitive you are."

"I am, but women are born to multitask. Although…sometimes multitasking can be counterproductive. You know why so many women have trouble reaching orgasm?" she asked.

He stopped, lifted his head, and with an expression of complete assuredness said, "Because I can't be with _all_ of them."

Pausing the game, she tried to glare, but he shrugged and decided there was no point in entertaining any disagreement to his suggestion. He moved his hands to the very tops of each of her thighs, pressing down to part her folds as he gazed at her sex like a long-awaited offering. He watched her face as he wrapped his lips around her clit and softly sucked. Her expression relaxed, but she didn't respond too eagerly, allowing the sensations to build throughout her body. As his eyes started to close, he stopped momentarily and said, "No pausing the game. And I think you were just explaining why _you_ think so many women have trouble reaching orgasm," before his tongue slid along her slit.

Still refusing to admit that he was distracting her, she picked up the controller and explained, "Because women can't…so easily turn off our brains. We have these…" she was gasping occasionally as he continued, finding it harder to suppress the noises she was naturally compelled to make if she was talking. So she stopped talking.

"You have these what?" he asked, returning his attention immediately to getting her off.

"We have to keep everything …oh, right there," she said with a tiny moan.

"You have to keep everything _right there_?" he stopped long enough to tease her. She leaned back, dropping the controller on the floor and pulling his head against her body as she lifted her hips. He slipped a finger into her, feeling her move against him encouragingly. His voice muffled against her body, he asked, "What was that about women and multitasking?"

Remembering her original point, she answered quickly, "If given the choice between playing that game or fully enjoying my orgasm, I'm gonna enjoy the orgasm. Smart women who also like orgasms choose when to multitask and when to focus."

He wasn't about to argue with her logic. He started to move his fingers again, pumping evenly in and out of her body as he conformed to her shape. He watched her like it was the last time because he thought it might be. They had a meeting with a lawyer the following afternoon. And House wondered what would happen from there. He wondered how Cuddy would feel about their temporary arrangement if the lawyer confirmed what House suspected and a long prison sentence was in his future.

Shoving tomorrow far from his mind, he decided he also wanted to focus on one thing rather than multitask. Continuing to watch the subtle changes and signs of arousal in her face, he lowered his lips back to the tops of her thighs, and licked patiently along her skin and back to her pussy. He closed his eyes, feeling the slick warmth of her flesh in his mouth as his tongue swirled around her clit. She breathed in sharply, lifting her hips off the sofa and toward him in repeated waves of desire.

As she came back down from her peak, she scratched her nails along the back of his head while she sighed with satisfaction. He rested his face on her stomach, staring at the back of the sofa. She shifted under him a little, holding him against her so he wouldn't move away. Once she was still, she let go of his head, and he heard the music and sounds coming from the TV again. He turned to watch her play. Lying there, he saw her beat her previous high score. "Guess I play better when I'm relaxed," she said as she handed him the controller.

He sat up, smirking at her and beginning his own turn. He was having a very good round, a fact that he'd noted, when Cuddy slipped down from the sofa and knelt on the floor between his legs. His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the game because just the fact that she was sitting there and the implications that followed were already turning him on a little.

Her fingers moved over the light cotton pajama pants, her hand settling warmly over his sex. She rubbed her palm against him, feeling him respond to every nuance of her touch. As he became more aroused, her fingers conformed around the shape of him, beginning to stroke more deliberately. He was still playing the game, but his expression was blank. His mouth was open a bit and she could hear the slightly heavier breaths. She grabbed the elastic band of his pants and pulled them down while he lifted to make it easier, still at least trying to make it look like he was focused on the game.

He saw her look toward the end table where they had stashed some of their condoms, and he paused his game and let go of the controller. With a look of extreme sincerity as he tried to hide any hint desperation, he said, "I'm completely clean. No diseases, I've been tested. You know if there was even a chance, I'd tell you."

She considered him for a minute and said, "A man once told me that a guy will say absolutely anything for a blow job."

"Yea, that was probably me. But in this case, what I told you was the truth. I don't even need the whole blow job. Just give me two minutes before you put the condom on…one minute. I just want to feel it like I used to. Then we can have sex if you want."

He thought she looked confused, and she was a little. They'd had a lot of sex, given the constraints of their situation, but he had actually asked for very little. She couldn't help but be drawn in by how _much_ he seemed to want this. Her grip tightened slightly and she started pumping along his length while his hips rose to meet her. She could hear him hold his breath in anticipation as she moved closer to him. Her hand pressed his erection against his stomach as she licked in one long stroke from the base to the tip as his head dropped back. She ran her lips along the underside of his cock, her tongue skimming along his smooth, sensitive skin as the muscles in his legs twitched a little in reaction to the pleasure. He closed his eyes to try to enjoy every second of his one, barrier-free minute. But the minute came and went, and she didn't stop.

Her hands stroked, cupped and caressed him as his arousal built. He reached for her hair, gathering a lot of it up in one hand and pulling it behind her head in a loose pony tail so he could see her. Just when he thought she was about to stop, she wrapped her lips around the tip and sucked him into her mouth. He groaned unavoidably, vacillating between his desire to watch her and the need to close his eyes and simply _feel. _She started picking up her pace, obviously ignoring both the one and two minute marks as she continued. The sensations started to become overpowering. House felt the tension build all through his center, extending up through his abdomen. "You probably want to stop now," he suggested through gritted teeth, although he wanted nothing more in that moment than for her to continue.

Cuddy didn't stop though, empowered and urged by his response and the way she was making him feel. Her pace quickened as his grip on her hair tightened and he tried not to push too roughly into her mouth. Any desire to prolong was silenced by his body's response to her. Biological drive overwhelmed conscious thought as he was swept up in that feeling of being entirely twisted and tightened, and then suddenly let go. As the intensity of it all faded, he murmured a thank you that was as unstoppable as his orgasm and exhaustedly smiled at the ceiling. His gratitude made the feelings she was trying to ignore swell within her.

A few minutes later as he seemed less disconnected, she said, "So I guess you aren't _only_ happy when you're sleeping." She was referencing their earlier discussion with Michael. "You also seemed pretty happy a minute or two ago, and when we were playing that game. It's practically running rampant."

With relaxation lowering his voice, he answered, "I don't know why you're so focused on whether or not I can be happy."

Somewhat defensively, she answered, "I'm not focused on it. I think you deserve it."

"I just don't get why people put so much emphasis on it. Happiness doesn't solve anything."

"Maybe it's because _people _want a better life for those they love. I thought that was part of loving someone, truly hoping that they will have as much happiness as they can find."

"Love is not my area of expertise."

Cuddy felt sad for a reason she didn't care to address directly, but the melancholy saturated her words, "You were willing to turn yourself in without any concern for the penalty so Wilson could get better and live a healthy, full life. You wanted me to try to meet someone else, even though you couldn't stand the thought of seeing it happen." Shaking her head, she added sarcastically, "Clearly…you know _nothing_ at all about love."

He picked up the controller and started to play again. They sat in silence until Cuddy yawned, "I should probably go to bed. Our appointment is tomorrow. I had fun tonight."

"Me too. Now I'll remember all too well what I'm missing when it's gone."

"We're going to figure this whole thing out. Even if you can't be happy, at least you can be _Gregory House_ again. He's been dead for too long."

With a forced half-smile he paused the game and bobbed his head, "Goodnight." He thought about trying to convince her to stay a little longer, but he didn't feel like getting turned down.

Leaning over his hands, she gave him a quick kiss and replied, "Goodnight," with a pause at the end like she was waiting for him to say more. She meandered toward the door, trying to decide in her own mind if she should offer to stay, but she was certain he'd dismiss the idea.

Her hand reached for the knob and he taunted, "Go ahead, Cuddy, run away. If you really wanted to see happiness, you'd wait to see my face when I defeat your old, pathetic high score."

Biting the inside of her cheek to hide a smile, she gladly took the excuse to stay and said, "So far you're all talk." She returned to the sofa and sat next to him, grabbing the blanket that was slung over the back and curling under it. He naturally lifted his one arm to let her lean against him before he kept playing.

She didn't ask for a turn, so he kept going, and after a few more times, he didn't just beat her high score, he completely annihilated it. Looking down at her, fully prepared to gloat, he realized she was asleep. Her hand was pinned between his chest and her face, and she was breathing with gentle, even breaths, completely at rest. It was at that moment when he accepted how thoroughly he wanted this. It wasn't all of the sex they'd been having, the amazing blow job he'd just received or the fact that he still loved arguing with her. It was the way he felt when he looked down and saw her sleeping on his chest while he played a video game.

There was a moment of panic while his mind replayed the evening. He remembered that she had hinted, not all that subtly, that she loved him. More surprisingly to him, she had suggested that he loved her. The panic became a surge of stubbornness as he accepted that he was no longer going to the lawyer to appease Cuddy. He was going because he wanted a thousand more nights on her sofa with her. And he wanted it without having to hide from anyone. He had planned the evening because he wanted to remember a time, however short-lived, when their relationship was fun and they _liked _each other. It was hard to see the good times through the murky misery of the bad times. House thought he'd take the memory of the evening with him to prison. Maybe Cuddy would be able to look back on him with a little less sadness and anger. But one more night with her wasn't nearly enough.

His thoughts were interrupted when the music track on his game repeated, the little blinking cursor on the screen reminding him to claim his spot at the top of the list. Clicking the controller, he selected the initials "GH," signing his own name for the first time since his death.


	7. Blueprints

_A/N-Thanks to the reviewers since the last chapter: dmarchl21, IHeartHouseCuddy, OldSFfan, lenasti16, JLCH, MrsBock, jkarr, Abby, HuddyGirl, Naomi, Alex, LizLo, freeasabird14, MissBates, Addie, KiwiClare, BabalooBlue, jaybe61, Suzieqlondon, hughsoulingregsmind, bladesmum, linda12344, Little Greg, Huddyphoric, RochelleRene, grouchysnarky, LoveMyHouse, CaptainK8, IkissedtheLaurie, anamq, Ann and the Guest reviewers._

* * *

**-Blueprints-**

Wilson woke in the early hours of the morning and went to see if House was up. The door to House's room was locked, so Wilson knocked softly a few times, trying not to wake Rachel. House didn't answer the door though. He also didn't immediately answer a text, so Wilson grabbed a skewer from the kitchen and popped the simple indoor lock. Hurrying into the room, he saw the end of the sofa where two undeniably female feet jutted out from under a blanket next to House's.

Wilson was furious, assuming at first impression that House had brought a prostitute into Cuddy's home. Wilson rushed over to the sofa to wake House to tell him to get the woman out of there before Cuddy or Rachel found out what he had done. After Wilson walked around the television that had partially blocked his view, he was so stunned that he actually stepped back.

House was resting on the sofa with Cuddy curled against him. Drifting between sleep and alertness, his face was completely relaxed, head resting on the arm of the sofa as his fingers absentmindedly followed the shape of the bones in her hand where it rested against his ribs. Something in him seemed to suddenly sense another presence in the room, and his eyes opened as he looked around. House glanced at his friend before looking back at Cuddy, surrendering to the fact that they'd been caught without putting up much of a fight. Within seconds of the discovery, Wilson understood the depth of the relationship just by looking at them. Offering an affirming smile, Wilson was preparing to leave when he saw her eyes flutter open. She stretched, nestling back against House for a few more moments of rest. She asked, sleepily, "Need me to move? Are you uncomfortable?"

House yawned, "Me? No, I'm not uncomfortable. I'm guessing Wilson probably is though."

Her eyes popped open questioningly at House. He looked over to the spot where Wilson was standing, and she followed House's line of sight. "Morning, Wilson," she said, somewhat sheepishly smiling at him as she pushed up to a seated position next to House.

"Would you still like to deny that things are going well between you?" Wilson asked them, noting how closely they sat next to each other even though they'd been caught.

"We were just…playing a video game," Cuddy began, obviously searching for each word carefully. "Anyway, we were playing, and I must have fallen asleep, and he probably couldn't move me."

"That used to happen all of the time when House and I would watch movies together," Wilson sarcastically countered. "And we both know House is far too _polite_ to wake someone up if they have him trapped. And, Cuddy, you're definitely the type of person who visits friends in your pajamas and falls asleep on them. This is making total sense."

They both acknowledged the thoroughness of Wilson's suspicion. Cuddy uncoordinatedly began to reply, "We aren't…it's not _exactly_…" As she stalled, she looked at House to continue.

He added, "She means we didn't really—"

Cuddy continued, "Have a clear definition of…this."

"More of an understanding," House said to try to complete the thought.

Wilson looked between the two of them, showing how little he believed their explanation. "An understanding? Well, I know whenever I think about potential no-strings hook-ups, I automatically consider rekindling my most complicated relationships. So yet again, what you're saying makes total sense," Wilson wryly answered.

"I didn't say this was a no-strings hook-up," Cuddy stated plainly.

She and House briefly exchanged a look, silently discussing their situation. She shrugged, waiting for his comment. His eyes focused on his hands as he thought, but when he decided to look at her, all she could see was his certainty. They went back and forth, sharing facial expressions and the occasional nod in a way that was silently conversational. At one point, it was as if they had reached a consensus. What struck Wilson the most was the almost vulnerable look they shared at the end of their _discussion_ when they both seemed to agree about whatever it was that they had.

Wilson simply said, "Alright. What are we going to do now?"

"_We_ again?" House asked. "You're both obsessed with that pronoun."

Wilson asserted, "You lost the right to be completely alone in the world when you faked your death to run away with me." Cuddy nodded, looking at House with a sense of satisfaction that Wilson was making a point so close to the one she'd made hours earlier. "So is there a plan yet, or haven't we gotten that far?" Wilson added.

"The plan is that you keep going to your appointments," House insisted. "We're going to see a lawyer to find out if there's any chance that I don't have to spend the rest of my viable years in prison."

Wilson approvingly smiled, "And if the lawyer doesn't work?"

"We'll let Arlene drug the water supply at the prison and carry me out over her shoulder while everyone is unconscious. Duh."

* * *

During the drive to the lawyer's office, Cuddy talked most of the way. She seemed hopeful and eager to hear what the lawyer had to say. House felt nauseous the entire time. He was already imagining the feeling of watching the light disappear behind the closing prison doors as he saw his freedom vanish again. He could practically smell the prison in his memory, the odor of hundreds of men in close quarters mixed with the very palpable weight of rage, resentment and hopelessness. Memories of the endless repetition flowed through his mind: waking, eating, lights out, tastes of the sun that were too short. Then there were the other unscheduled things that were just as persistent: prison fights, gangs, theft. He wondered how his mind would cope with the boredom and his body would handle the pain without Vicodin. There seemed little point staying clean in prison.

His thoughts were avalanching forward to a life he wasn't sure he could survive when he felt her hand on his shoulder and he turned. "Are you alright?" she asked.

"Not looking forward to prison," he answered.

"That's why we're doing this. So you don't have to go back." She pulled up to a stately brick building with neatly painted white trim and said, "This guy is supposed to be the best. I know he handled DUIs for a couple of doctors at the hospital."

"DUI?" House looked away, his eyes wide. What he had done was more complicated than a DUI, and the little confidence he had in this solution was faltering.

The waiting room was too bright and too cold and smelled like rose-scented air freshener that reminded House of a funeral home. Cuddy wasn't bothered by the brightness or the cold or the floral air, but when she saw the attorney, something didn't feel right. They entered his office, sat down in front of his desk, and he continued to hold a fake smile. "How can I help you?"

House prepared to answer, but on instinct alone, Cuddy quickly lied, "I have a DUI."

The lawyer reached into his desk and grabbed a folder clearly labeled 'DUI.' He started putting out forms, discussing fees, and then he somehow sneered while maintaining the same fake smile, "You could have told my assistant that and saved me the trouble. We handle plenty of these. Since you insisted on seeing me, you'll be billed at my full rate."

"That's fine."

"Fill these out and give them to my assistant. Coordinate anything else through her."

Cuddy stood, grabbing the papers from the desk and House's arm, and pulling him out of the office so quickly he found it hard to keep up. At the front desk, she paid the fee in cash to avoid a paper trail and continued out the front door.

"When you said we were going to talk to a lawyer about my case, I thought we might actually mention _my_ _case_. What the hell just happened?" House asked as they drove away.

"I didn't like him. We'll find someone else."

"You didn't _like_ him?"

"I didn't trust him." Cuddy glanced over at House. "I still think this is the right thing to do. He's just not the right lawyer. We're putting your future, your _life_, in someone else's hands. I don't think I really thought about what's at stake here. One shady lawyer makes a phone call for a reward and the next thing we know, you're arrested and our bargaining power is gone. If you turn yourself in instead of being caught, I'm sure that will look better to a judge."

"I'm a little turned on that you think I'm badass enough to merit a finder's reward, but there is no reward. I'm dead, no one is looking for me. Even if I hadn't faked my death, I didn't do anything _Most Wanted _worthy."

"I just… I don't want to lead you down this path and have it all go horribly wrong. I don't want to be the reason why you end up in jail."

They drove the rest of the way home in silence. She parked and sighed, "Once we start this process, we might not be able to stop it. If you end up in prison, and I had something to do with that…"

"_You_ broke parole, got high, escaped a burning building and switched the dental records? I forgot you had such an extensive criminal past."

"I convinced you to call a lawyer when maybe I should have convinced you to skip the country."

"You made a suggestion and I chose to take it. You didn't force me."

"And if it doesn't work, it'll be your infarction all over again. Another suggestion that I made with the right intentions that comes out all wrong. I don't want to lead you right back to prison. Who will you blame if that happens? Who will you resent? I know you're just seeing the lawyer to humor me."

"I'm not doing it to humor you. The last lawyer was a dud. We'll find another one."

* * *

They walked into Michael's office together after a few days of searching for a new lawyer. The search was not going well. Michael noticed their somber moods immediately. "Is everything alright? Problems with the caterer for your wedding?" he asked with dry sarcasm. Waiting for a quick retort from someone, Michael watched House and Cuddy take their spots on the sofa, and observed their silence. His face drained of expression as he asked, "You got married, didn't you?"

"Of course not, that's ridiculous," Cuddy answered abruptly. "Everything's fine."

Michael watched the way they sat a little closer to each other. The shift in body language was somewhat remarkable in spite of the space they maintained between them. "It's fine?" he asked. "You both seem to be somewhat preoccupied, your moods rather heavy."

House looked at her, seeing her question whether or not they should discuss the situation openly. He gestured for her to continue, "We can tell him."

Michael wondered, "First of all, where has the animosity gone?"

Cuddy shrugged and stiffly smiled. She wasn't sure how to answer his question, "Things have improved. We both feel—"

Michael held up a hand, "Don't speak to his feelings. Only speak to your own."

"We have some serious problems, but I want to try. There are also a lot of things between us that _aren't_ problematic. I think that maybe if we both want it badly enough, we can find a way to make it work."

"You have experimented with a relationship before. Is this the same, or is it different than the last experiment?"

"Before, I wanted to see if we could coexist, if we could join select bits and pieces of our lives, but essentially remain separate and autonomous."

"And now?"

"We can't look at it like an experiment. We can't sit back and watch whatever happens. If we want it to work, we need to _make_ it work. It has been difficult, sometimes painful, to get this far, but it feels worth it anyway. I'm willing to really try, to keep trying."

"And you, Greg?"

House tapped his cane on the ground, putting serious thought into the question. He knew what he wanted, but saying it aloud to Michael was something very different. Cuddy took a calming breath and said, "You don't need to answer today."

Michael added, "Do you have anything you want to add, Greg, or should we discuss something else?"

House answered curtly, directly to Cuddy. "Of course I want to try. I want…to figure things out with you, to figure it out with your kid. I want all of that. But if I have a sentence of more than a year or two, we may need to consider what that means."

"A sentence?" Michael asked. "You fear you're about to be identified? Is someone threatening to turn you in?"

"If I'm with Cuddy, at some point someone is going to realize who I am. She can't go on the run with me. So the only thing to do is figure out how to clean up the mess I left behind, clear my name. I don't know how to do that without turning myself in, and if I turn myself in, I'm going to prison."

"We tried to find a lawyer, but we're having trouble finding one that we're comfortable with," Cuddy added.

Michael let out an odd, gruff sound that got their attention. His fingers covered his forehead as he leaned into his hand, so they couldn't read his expression. When he finally looked up, he had such a consuming smile on his face that his eyes practically disappeared behind his cheekbones. When Cuddy saw his face, she thought he was having a nervous breakdown. His hands stretched in front of him for a moment while he looked up, mumbling unintelligibly, and then he rested his hands on his knees. Loudly, with a sense of pride, he declared, "So we talked about your relationship in terms of a metaphorical farmhouse or home, yes? We talked about deciding what you wanted, where you could build something _together_. You've finally come to an agreement, and you've chosen to build something…in reality!"

House raised one eyebrow and leaned forward suspiciously. "I had no idea that the thought of me in prison would make you this happy."

"You are two of the stupidest smart people I've ever encountered. This pseudo-relationship you were indulging in was going to lead to disaster. But here you are, toying with the idea of trying to exist in the real world. Half-relationships and near-attempts at reconciliation are pointless to me, but _reality_…I can work with reality."

Cuddy looked at House, in some ways confirming that they were both witnessing what could only be described as sheer joy from the rabbi. She asked, a little hesitantly, "Do you have a suggestion for how we can deal with this?"

"Perhaps the fact that you're crazy will actually help you." Michael stood, walking to his desk, still mumbling to himself, but the smile was gone. His earlier reaction seemed to be in a moment where his happiness was so thorough that he couldn't mask it behind his usual spiritual professionalism, but after the initial surprise wore off, he looked like the same level-headed man they'd become accustomed to seeing. He wrote something down on a piece of paper and handed it to Cuddy, "This is my daughter. She's an attorney. Call her. _Cooperate_," he ordered. "She'll help you, so don't give her a difficult time. She won't put up with any crap."

Cuddy's eyes were filled with a hope that Michael had not seen from her before. "You think House can get some sort of deal?" she asked.

"My daughter is very good at what she does. With your permission I'll discuss your case with her."

House agreed, more than willing to allow Michael to say whatever he needed to if they could find a lawyer they could trust. "You couldn't have mentioned your attorney daughter before today?" House asked.

Michael shook his head, "For people who waste my time? No. For people who have made a tough decision, showed initiative and the willingness to confront the consequences? Yes. Now, if you can quietly get your medical records, it would be helpful."

"I have a pretty big dossier. You sure you want that?"

"I think it will speak to the state of mind a person can be in due to pain that is both acute and chronic over many years. This same person loses his relationship, experiences incarceration and what he believes will be the death of his closest companion. This combination of physical and psychological pain with drug addiction may have rendered you unaware of reality and consequences, it is rooted in a medical diagnosis that is not in dispute. I'm not a lawyer, but I've assisted with cases like this."

"So you think I'm insane?" House asked, nonjudgmentally.

"I think I can convince someone else that you are."

"I don't want to go back to a psych hospital," House adamantly countered. "Isn't that what happens to people who don't go to jail because they plead crazy? They lock them up in some mental ward instead of a prison? Locked up is locked up."

"Your situation has changed. You've sought counseling, as far as I can tell, your drug addiction has been addressed. We want to convince them you were not mentally capable when the incidents occurred, but that you are now."

"Even Cuddy doesn't buy that," House argued.

"It doesn't matter what Lisa thinks. It matters what prosecutors and judges think. Perhaps an agreement can be reached before you turn yourself in. I'm not a legal expert, but I think we could make it work. Talk to my daughter. You can trust her."

* * *

"Rachel has a meet," Cuddy said as she drove after the appointment. "I can drop you off at home. Mom and Wilson will be back soon. Then after dinner we can make a phone call to this lawyer." House silently adjusted the vents that blew cool air at his face.

When they were nearly home, he stated, like it was barely a fact to be noticed, "I'll go see her swim."

Cuddy wasn't sure what to make of his suggestion. "Rachel?"

"Yea. I'll keep my distance so no one sees me. Then you don't have to bother dropping me off."

A million questions flowed through her head, but she decided to save them for later.

She sat in her usual spot so that Rachel would be able to find her. The girl smiled and waved before she took her lane to begin. When Rachel climbed out of the water near the end of the meet, she looked up at the enclosed glass viewing area above the pool. Cuddy watched as the girl beamed up at House and waved. He nodded subtly, lifting three of his fingers at the top of his cane to wave back. Rachel walked to the locker room like she was floating on air.

Rachel had shown only minor interest in House until that point, and they had rarely spoken. The second he showed the slightest interest in her, her attitude changed. She chatted the entire ride back home and even talked to him at dinner. Everyone noticed the difference. Before bed, she approached him cautiously. He was sitting on a chair on the porch, talking with Wilson. Reaching one arm up, she flung it around House's neck and gave him a quick hug. Cuddy watched the thoroughness of his discomfort, but after a second, he patted the center of her back and said, awkwardly, "Good job with the swimming."

Rachel stepped back. She looked at the pack of cigarettes on the table and curled her lip with distaste, lecturing, "Cigarettes mess up your lungs. They'll get all black and scummy, and then you'll have to cough out all of the gunk. If you wanna live a long time, you should stop. Did you know that?"

"I've heard rumors."

"Time for bed, Rach," Cuddy pointed toward the door.

As they walked inside, House could clearly hear Rachel say to Cuddy, "Before school I told him he could play any of my games. I think that's why he came to see me swim. Maybe he likes me now."

Cuddy's voice reassuringly answered, but House couldn't hear her actual words. He opened the pack of cigarettes and looked inside. He distinctly remembered a time as a child when he _wanted _to be liked. He couldn't quite identify the particular feeling he was experiencing, but he certainly didn't enjoy it. He definitely didn't care for the idea that Rachel thought he liked her because she won him over with some video games.

Shoving the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, he followed Cuddy and Rachel inside. He heard voices from the bathroom since the door was open. Rachel was brushing her teeth over the sink while Cuddy sat on the edge of the tub and talked to her. He leaned against the doorway and watched them for a moment before Cuddy asked, "You alright?"

He swallowed hard, looking every bit as awkward as he felt. His words echoed in his head with uncertainty, but he felt like he had to say something. "Do you have a trash can in here?" he asked Rachel.

She opened the door under the sink and pointed, nodding her head with a mouth full of toothpaste suds and garbling, "Under here."

"I was thinking about what you said." He held out the pack of cigarettes, but the girl watched his hand with confusion. "I do kinda want to live a while. Throw these away."

Rachel took the pack and tossed it with utter disgust. She tried to say something, but her mouth was so full that she held up a finger to get House to wait. After she spit out her toothpaste, she smiled up at him, "Are we gonna play after dinner tomorrow? I'll let you have the good controller."

"We won't have time," House shook his head and the girl was visibly disappointed. He held up a green flier for the science fair that he'd found. "Saw this on the fridge. Are you gonna submit something?"

"Yea."

"This is what I'm good at. Wanna start tomorrow when you get home?"

"It's a long time since you went to school. Are you sure you still know about science?"

Amusedly he looked at her for a moment, sort of enjoying the double-insults. He finally bobbed his head as he smirked, "I think I remember a thing or two."

"Alright," Rachel answered, a little confused. House started down the hall, and she asked, "You're really gonna help me with it?"

He paused and looked back, "If you want."

The girl tried to look cool, but her lips kept involuntarily smiling. "Okay," she agreed. "G'night."

Rachel walked to her room, waving as she passed him. His eyes focused on the wall while he waited for Cuddy to leave. He wondered how disappointed she was with his effort with Rachel. House guessed there were probably plenty of men willing to say the perfect things to win over Rachel, but dealing with children wasn't exactly his area of expertise. Then he waited for Cuddy to tell him exactly that, or, even worse, to say nothing so he'd have to wait for her reaction. She stopped in front of him, but he didn't look at her until he felt her hand against his chest. She offered a little smile, something prompted by approval and appreciation, and affectionately patted him before her hand slipped away and she followed her daughter. His eyes were trained on her until she disappeared into the bedroom.

House joined Wilson on the porch. "Everything alright?" Wilson asked. House rested his elbows on the table and leaned his chin on his fists as he processed what he thought he'd learned. After searching for any other signs or clues that he may have missed, he looked at Wilson and nodded his head. "So…what happened?" Wilson pressed.

"I did not entirely fuck that up."

"Seriously?"

"Unless there's something I missed. Rachel seems happy, and Cuddy did not seem pissed."

A moment later, Cuddy stepped on the porch. She was subtly smiling, not saying or doing anything overt, but it was clear that she was not unhappy with House. "I think I want some tea. You guys want tea or…" she looked directly at House, "some coffee?"

"I'll take some tea," Wilson answered.

"Coffee sounds good," House answered before Cuddy went back inside.

"I had no idea _coffee_ could sound so…intriguing. I want a woman who offers me that kind of coffee," Wilson noted.

"I don't think it was a euphemism."

"Neither do I. She meant coffee. It was all of the other unspoken stuff she implied while she was talking about coffee. What did you say to Rachel?" Wilson asked.

"Nothing amazing."

"Whatever unamazing thing you said, one thing is obvious: you did not fuck it up. I think…Cuddy is in _love_," Wilson teased a bit at the end.

"Shut up," House countered, shaking his head as his eyes squinted a false threat and a smile tugged at one side of his mouth.


	8. The Importance of Being Crazy

_A/N-Hey all, finally back. Thank you so much to all who've read and the reviewers since the last posting: IHeartHouseCuddy, grouchysnarky, OldSFfan, jkarr, linda12344, LizLo, lenasti16, ikissedtheLaurie, JLCH, KiwiClare, BabalooBlue, freeasabird14, housebound, the Guests, ammeboss, dmarchl21, CaptainK8, Abby, HuddyGirl, Alex, Vast Difference, Little Greg, Addie, Bladesmum, Huddyphoric, Suzieqlondon and Ann._

_Disclaimer…I still don't own the characters. Also, I'm not a lawyer. I want this story to be plausible-esque, but if you're an attorney (or watch tons of _Law and Order_) I'm sure you could teach me a thing or two._

* * *

**-The Importance of Being Crazy-**

House and Cuddy dialed into a video chatting session with Michael and his daughter, Sarah, after Rachel went to bed. Sarah was direct, obviously intelligent and willing to take House on as a client. Michael began to explain his thoughts about the case and House's mental state as Sarah listened to the available details. When Michael was finished, he asked, "So what do you think?"

Sarah tapped her index fingers together as she looked over what little documentation she had. "I think this is a great idea. It'll save millions in tax dollars." She stared into the camera and sighed, "Is pain and addiction grounds for lenience? Dad, what sort of precedent are you trying to set here? Should a methamphetamine addict be acquitted of robbery if she has a history of chronic migraines? Should a drunk driver who takes a life be set free if his wife died?"

"I'm not speaking of the pain or drug use as an excuse. I'm speaking about the ability to differentiate right from wrong. Pain can impact a person's mental state. His drug use was directly associated with the pills prescribed to him to help him cope with the pain. This is different than a recreational user."

"Dad…," Sarah's eyes dropped to the paperwork. "If we're going the insanity route, it probably means we're going to trial. If that's the case, we'll need as much evidence as we can find to back up these claims, like psych evals, medical history."

"What about post-traumatic stress?" Cuddy asked.

"From what?" Sarah questioned.

"From the infarction he had in his leg, the surgery to correct it, and the problems he's had since the surgery. Can't that help to support an insanity defense?" Cuddy said as she felt House's eyes.

"It might. I can't tell you until I see the records…legal, medical, psychiatric, whatever you can get. Legally you're on shaky ground."

"I'll get all of it," House replied directly. "At least the medical and legal records."

"We can do new psych evals," Sarah answered. "That's no problem."

"We've laid some groundwork, hopefully." Michael stated. "So now you two can get those records, deliver them to my daughter and go plan your upcoming nuptials."

"If I were you, I'd tie the knot _before_ you come forward," Sarah mumbled as she shuffled the papers on her desk.

"He was joking," Cuddy explained, glancing at House before returning her attention to the computer. "Out of curiosity, why would you say that?"

"Spouses can't be compelled to testify."

"I _want_ to testify," Cuddy immediately offered. "If anything, the fact that I'm willing to should really help his case."

Sarah smiled, a bit condescendingly. "You don't just get to sit on the stand and talk about your personal feelings regarding him. Once you agree to testify, you have to answer all of the questions that are asked of you. Refusal to do so can lead to contempt of court charges."

"But you get to ask me questions too."

"If I were the prosecutor, you are the two people I'd most like to see on the stand. The effect a prosecutor could have with a few direct questions can do more damage than my time with you on the stand can do to help."

"I can handle the questions."

"And a good prosecutor will handle you. They can bring up his personnel record, known details of any of your work and personal relationships, the original police report you filed…anything is fair game. You'd have to be ready for that level of exposure." Sarah watched their obvious concern and added, "I'm not suggesting that you get married to avoid testifying. I was only commenting that if you intend to marry, now is the time."

Cuddy and House's body language showed the awkwardness they felt. Cuddy finally said, "Thank you for your time. We'll make sure you get the information you need as soon as possible."

"Look, I know this isn't what you want to hear," Sarah said sympathetically, "but there are other ways to avoid testifying. Have you considered a plea bargain?"

"How much time locked up?" House asked.

"I think I can get you down to two-to-three out in twelve-to-eighteen months. Given the current overcrowding and the fact that in terms of 'bad guys' you really rank pretty low, the climate is in your favor. I'd try for less, but identity fraud is a hot button issue right now. If you take this to trial, it could mean commitment in a psychiatric facility or a significantly longer sentence in prison if we are unable to make an insanity defense stick. If there's a plea bargain, you know what you're looking at. You have a little more control…you definitely have the advantage of knowing exactly what you're facing. Twelve-to-eighteen months is so much better than seven years. With the wrong prosecutor, it could be even longer."

"How well do you know the prosecutors in Trenton? Is there a good chance of finding someone to work out a deal with?" Cuddy asked.

"Daniels would be the worst, he'd go for the maximum sentence. I'd think we could work with anyone else. Alvarez or Savage would be better. Postler would…" Sarah started looking through the paperwork like she had an idea, and questioned, "What did you do at the hospital?"

"Me? As in criminally?" House replied.

"No. What was your job?"

"Umm…_doctor_," he snipped back sarcastically.

"If I reach a deal for you, I hope your snide comments don't ruin it," Sarah quickly countered back. "There are a number of other jobs at hospitals. I had assumed you were head of patient hospitality, but let me guess again…surgeon?"

House smirked. He already liked her. "Diagnostics."

"You were familiar with patient care, running tests…basic routine medical practice?"

"I saw the abnormal patients. Extreme cases, unsolved cases."

When Sarah seemed disappointed, Cuddy added, "He also worked in the clinic regularly. That was routine patient care. Why?"

The lawyer's face was blank as she considered something, and even her father was uncertain about what she was thinking. She nodded, "I have a few ideas. I'll explore some options and bring all of your choices to the table. It'll be up to you to choose which route you want to take."

"Next week?" Cuddy asked.

"Yea, next week around the same time. Don't email me, no electronic transfers of any of this documentation, and…," Sarah stopped, watching something with incredible interest. "What are you doing? Dr. Sarcasm, what are you doing with your hand?"

He looked down at his leg and said, "Rubbing my thigh. As _lovely_ as conversation with you may be, I'm not jerking off or—"

She interrupted, "You always do that?"

"Only when it hurts. So yea, I pretty much always do that. Part of the whole definition of _chronic_ pain."

Sarah smiled, stiffly, "Does anything make it better or worse?"

"Pacing, certain types of exercise, massage, a decent bed, hot baths, Vicodin. Those things don't make it _worse_."

"But you aren't on any narcotics? You aren't self-medicating with any controlled substances?"

"Not anymore."

"Are you willing to take a test to prove that?"

"Sure."

"So you just…deal with it?" Sarah asked. When he only shrugged in answer, she continued, "I need a straightforward answer. You are in a significant amount of pain every day?"

"Some days it's more manageable. Other days it isn't."

Almost grinning, the lawyer nodded, "If those things you use to moderate your pain are not available to you, the number of unmanageable days must skyrocket."

"Glad you're enjoying that."

"I need to involve another attorney, a human rights advocate."

"I thought we were supposed to keep this quiet," Cuddy said.

"If this advocate had her way, a third of the people in prison wouldn't be there. You're safe with her," Sarah added.

"Having a bad leg didn't stop them from locking me up before," House argued.

"Did you work with an attorney on that? Did you talk to a prisoner's rights advocate?"

"No."

"It might not stop them from locking you up, but it might change the circumstances of your housing. Did you enjoy the accommodations during your last stretch?" the attorney questioned.

"Not particularly."

"I don't think you belonged in that facility in the first place. Few people do, it's an overcrowded cage. Prisons like that take people who've committed even small crimes and turn them into career criminals. Who advised you?"

"I did. I wasn't in the mood for bargaining."

He could tell she was nearly ready to inform him of the depths of his idiocy, but as she looked at him, her expression softened. "You want to stay out of prison now, don't you? You're going to cooperate with me?"

He nodded, "Yea."

"Get me the records, I'll explore the options. For now, keep things _quiet_."

* * *

Chase was seriously considering ending the life of the person who was knocking on his door. He'd just finished a case in the early hours of the morning, sparing a patient whom he was nearly convinced he'd lose. There was that rush of power and euphoria, that almost omnipotent feeling of solving the unsolvable and saving a life, and then the effects of nearly two weeks of sleep deprivation hit him. He'd called for a ride home because he was certain he'd fall asleep behind the wheel. And then some asshole was knocking on his door at ten am.

Wearing only his pajama pants, his still closely cropped hair as scattered as it could be, he flung his front door open. Only one eye was open initially, but when he saw Cuddy, the other eye opened to help him verify the identity of his disruptor. "Hey," Cuddy said with a quick wave. Pointing down at a figure in a wheelchair with a flowery scarf over its head, she added, "I know it's been a while, but Mom's sick and we can't figure out what's wrong. I didn't know who else to turn to."

Chase ran a hand through his hair and stepped back, barely signaling for Cuddy to enter. He tried to wake up, stretching his neck by rolling his head and then he saw a flurry of color as the scarf that had covered Cuddy's mother's head was tossed aside, and he heard House's never-forgotten voice, saying, "Where are your manners? Even_ I_ put clothes on when Cuddy's mother was over."

Chase, reacting calmly, blinked a few times, turned to Cuddy, and said, "I can't think of any known disease that could cause this sort of hideous disfigurement."

House stretched after being hunched down in the wheelchair, standing carefully and pulling his cane from the spot at the back where he had stored it. Chase stepped into his bedroom to quickly throw some clothes on and when he returned, Cuddy was standing alone in the living room. "Where is he?" Chase asked, nervously.

"Sorry for the disguise, but we don't want anyone else to know he's alive yet. I was going to come alone, but House can be kind of…insistent," she answered. "We need a small favor."

"What's the favor?" Chase asked as he sat on the edge of the sofa.

"We need—"

"I always thought you'd make a better looking woman than Foreman," House interrupted as he walked in, holding out a delicate lace bra.

Chase looked back to Cuddy, ignoring House and asking, "What's the favor?"

"We need House's medical records," she answered. "I'd get them but we need someone inside so we can pull them without arousing suspicion. We also need you to keep it completely quiet."

Chase took a few deep breaths while he considered the situation and said, pointing at Cuddy, "I am not entirely surprised to see you again. I assumed that, at some point, we'd run into each other." He turned to House, "I wish I could be surprised to see you alive…but I'm not. What _does_ surprise me is seeing both of you together under what appears to be voluntary circumstances."

House sat next to Chase on the sofa. "I'm sorry…" House began.

Chase turned, shocked to the point that he was suddenly much more awake. "You? You are…_sorry_?"

"Yea. I'm sorry you have…so little to work with!" House exclaimed, holding up the bra and poking the small lace cup. "I hope you haven't made any sort of commitment. I understand the quality versus quantity debate, but I personally prefer some of both."

"Give me that," Chase ripped the bra out of House's hand. "She has perfectly amazing…you know what, forget about it. I don't need _your_ approval. She's _my_ girlfriend."

"Park finally locked you down?"

"It's not Park. Is this really what you want to discuss?"

Cuddy stepped in, "As I was saying…we need House's medical records. Everything you can get. Can you do it?"

"Why do you need them?" Chase asked.

"I'm coming back," House answered somberly. "Not to the hospital, just…from the dead. My lawyer wants this crap."

"I can get what you need," Chase answered. House and Cuddy both nodded and waited. "You don't mean _now_, do you? I'll email them to you tomorrow."

"No email," Cuddy answered. "And we're kind of in a time crunch."

Chase huffed, "A time crunch? I've barely slept for the last two weeks, and I just got home a couple of hours ago. I'm not even going back to the hospital until tomorrow."

"We can wait right here," House offered. "Just go, get the records and bring them back."

"It's kind of a long drive home," Cuddy added.

Chase stood, sauntering over to the door. He put his hand on the knob and said, "You are not staying here while I'm gone. I'm exhausted and I'm kind of enjoying the fact that I don't work for either of you anymore. I'll get your paperwork, but since I can't email it to you, and I have to keep it secret, it'll take a little longer to get everything together. Meet me here tomorrow morning around eleven."

House sat back down in the wheelchair and flung the scarf over his head. With one last question, he pulled the scarf back and asked, "You knew I wasn't dead?"

"I saw the remains."

"You assisted with the autopsy?" House asked, with interest.

"Wasn't much to autopsy. However, you favored one side, limped and leaned on that cane for over a decade, but I saw no evidence of that. No damage to the shoulder, elbow or wrist joints from the long-term use of a cane. None of the expected wear patterns in hip joints, knees or the spinal column. That skeleton belonged to a person who did not walk like you."

House nodded, putting the scarf back over his head before he peeked out one more time. "I did that," he bragged to Cuddy. "I am responsible for the talents of that particular medical mind."

Chase crossed his arms and retorted, "Pretty sure I had something to do with it. I had a brilliant medical mind before I even met you."

Cuddy started to push the wheelchair out of the apartment as House argued, "You had a _mind_."

"See you tomorrow," she smiled at Chase as they left.

* * *

As the door to one of House's storage units rolled up, the light flickered to life inside the small room. There were few things stored compared to the amount of space that was available. While he shut the door, Cuddy lifted a few boxes and put them on top of other boxes so they could look through them. House pulled out a small metal lockbox and found some of what he needed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the larger boxes fall to the ground with a loud clap of plastic and pills. With the end of his cane he lifted one of the flaps of cardboard and he saw Cuddy's jaw drop with surprise as she found a sea of orange bottles.

She reached in, compelled by a curious impulse. As her fingers moved through the layers of contents, all she could feel was stunned. "You needed this much?" she asked softly.

"There's probably some other stuff in there."

"What possible circumstance would lead you to stash this many bottles of Vicodin?"

"Running out hurt like hell, and I didn't have a reliable supply line. I wanted to be prepared."

"This doesn't seem like overkill?" her fingers found something different in the box and pulled it out. Her brow furrowed as she gazed down at a fistful of new disposable needles and couple of rubber tourniquets. While her other hand rummaged through the box, she mumbled, "Oh my god."

"I told you the truth about the things I've done. I told you how bad things were," he angrily responded, his volume rising defensively.

"Seeing all of this in one place…"

"I told you, I've been tested. I didn't share needles, and I never put you at any risk—"

"I didn't—"

He interrupted, angrily, "I know who I am probably doesn't fit in well with your neat little—"

"Stop," she argued. "Just stop. Let's wait and talk about this at our next appointment with Michael."

"I have a better idea. He'd be the perfect boyfriend. Why mess up everything by including me when you could just start seeing Michael instead. Cut out the middle man."

"You aren't the middle man. He is. But sometimes he's good at getting us to talk productively. I don't like it either, but I don't know if we're ready to deal with something like this on our own."

"Why wait? You afraid I'm gonna lose it? You afraid I'm going to relapse? Why do you suddenly want to go back to having a chaperone?"

"Because I don't want this to go wrong. I don't know how to explain to you—"

"I'm the one person you can say anything to. Brutal honesty, give it to me. I don't care what you say."

"But you _do_ care what I say."

"Oh please. I can take whatever it is that you need to tell me." House kept talking, but Cuddy was fading out of the conversation. She couldn't even wrap her mind around the ache that she was experiencing. She could hear the frustration, the pain that he felt, in every one of his words. Sitting on the floor next to the box, she rifled through the contents while he continued to talk. And he kept talking until he saw her roll up her sleeve. He finally quieted, but only because he wasn't sure what she was doing. She took a rubber tourniquet and, after a few seconds of thinking about the best method, she tied it around her own arm with her free hand and her teeth.

He took two steps closer and, shaking his head, he asked, "What in the hell are you doing?" Cuddy was digging through the box, and House worried, for a moment, that he'd left morphine in the box as well. He told himself that he was certain he wouldn't have left it there, and he also knew there was no way Cuddy would ever do what she was suggesting, but he still didn't like what he was seeing. The very sight of the veins in her arms bulging out from her skin bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He grumbled, "We both know you'd never actually do that, so why don't you get to the point of this little demonstration?"

Sitting down on the textured, cold cement floor next to her, he reached out and loosened the tourniquet, rubbing his palm firmly over her forearm while her circulation returned. Her voice garbled, she asked, "So why did it bother you? I want you to tell me what you were just thinking."

"I'm not on the verge of relapse because we found this box, if that's what you're implying."

"I want to know what you were thinking. Maybe part of you doesn't like to imagine me getting to the point where I'd start using drugs?"

"I was thinking that you saw this box and you realized that all of the things you want to ignore about me are still true, even if you try to forget them. I can't change my past. You can't just have the pieces of me that you're okay with. I could see the disapproval."

"I wasn't being disapproving. It hurt me to think that you were at this point. I don't want to see you get to that point again. To think about your life slipping away like that, to think about the place you must have been in…it makes me feel sad. I don't think you understand how hard it is to watch someone destroy themselves. You blame me for a lot of—"

"No, I don't."

"I've been listening when you're talking in our sessions."

"I was angry. I…hurt," he shrugged, looking down. "A lot."

She nodded, looking down at the way he was still firmly rubbing her arm even though the circulation had long since been restored. "When I saw your stash it reminded me of how bad things had gotten. I don't want to think about your life being so painful that you'd resort to those measures. I don't want to watch you shut down. I can't handle it when you get like that."

"I didn't forget that you went from loving me to dumping me ten seconds flat. _I'm_ not the only one who shuts down."

"I'm not shutting down now. Do you know how hard it is to see someone you care about give up? How it feels to know you're losing them and you can't stop it?"

"Yea, Cuddy. Remember Wilson and the whole cancer thing? I've seen it lots of times…when I thought you were dying or when you dumped me or when I saw Wilson refuse treatment, I don't handle that stuff well. I'm not good at letting go gracefully."

"No one's _good_ at it."

"Well I'm better at not being good at it than most people," he retorted.

"Loss is _bound_ to happen. So what will you do if something goes wrong? What if Wilson's health turns or what if I get sick?"

"What will you do if I fuck up and relapse?" he counter-questioned.

"I know what's at stake here," she quietly answered.

"And so do I." He breathed slowly and then said with prophetic sarcasm, "There's only one solution…Wilson will have to promise to get better, you'll have to agree to die long after me, and I'll promise to never fuck up. Seems simple enough. Problem solved." He paused for a while as he let the sarcastic futility of such an option ring in the air. "If things do go wrong… What do you propose that we do?" he asked, bluntly.

"We don't give up. We just…keep trying. If we don't give up, if we both really _try_…we can do this. If you see me slipping or I see you slipping, the other one has to try a little harder. We're both stubborn and persistent. Maybe we should apply those qualities here."

"Keep trying over and over again?" He faintly smiled, "Some would argue that continuously trying while hoping for a different outcome is the definition of insanity."

"We're trying slightly different ways to get to what we want, but there's a little truth there. We both know being together is a little crazy. But…if persistence and tenacity are so close to insanity…maybe we should accept the fact that we're a little crazy and use that to our advantage as well."

"It's like destiny has brought us together!" he joked. He watched her smile while she tossed items back into the box. The mood shifted completely when he solemnly answered, "I will try, Cuddy. I will focus my persistence and insanity. If that's enough for you…"

"I'd prefer that to promises that neither of us can keep. I'm pretty sure we can't promise not to fuck up or vow to die on a certain timeline. We're probably best off setting realistic expectations."

He conceded, practically whispering, "You were a tiny bit right. Even the suggestion of you shooting up… I didn't like it."

Pensively, she replied, "I'll do it, if you want to. I'll marry you if it helps with your case. It doesn't have to mean anything."

"Thank you," he said genuinely. Getting out his wallet, he pointed at his fake driver's license and said, "If we got married right now, you'd be marrying this guy. You'd offer to have and hold James Hulce 'til death. That would make Greg House extraordinarily jealous."

She chuckled, "Would it?"

"I've already had a quick, meaningless wedding and an even quicker no-contest divorce. And you've already had your own quick wedding-divorce combo. Impulsive shams don't seem to work out well for us."

"Not even for the conjugal visits?" she teased.

"You do know that conjugal visits require a full cavity search…even for the visitor, right?"

"Is that a euphemism?"

He shook his head slowly, "I'm sure some pretty interesting contraband has been smuggled in."

"Oh god."

"Not that it matters. If I go back to where I was, they don't allow naked visitors."

"I'd think it would be kind of bittersweet. A few hours or an evening together and then weeks or months apart…"

"Still, I appreciate the offer."

She started to close the flaps on the boxes and said without a lot of thought, "No matter what has happened, it seems like I don't really want to consider staying in a relationship with anyone else." Once she realized her words, she turned back to check his reaction. "I just…"

"That's why marrying my alter ego seems so wrong," he interrupted with a smirk. Holding out his license, he added, "Talk to me once I kill off this Hulce guy." Redirecting, he pondered, "But now how will I know if you're after me…or my dowry?"

"Your _dowry_?"

He poked the box with his knuckle and answered, "A really large supply of painkillers that are gradually losing their potency, and some drug paraphernalia. Of course I'll throw in the limp and some sarcasm to sweeten the pot." He stood, stretching a bit while he reached out a hand to help her up.

"Hey, House, are you gonna warn you mother?"

"About what?"

"I can't imagine what a shock that would be to her if…wait a minute," Cuddy paused as she read his face. "Your mom already knows you're alive?"

"She can always tell when I lie, even if I'm dead."


End file.
